


Barufel [The Greatest of Families]

by SOABA



Series: Barufel [The Greatest of Families] [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Gold Sickness, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, BAMF Dwalin, BAMF Thorin, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bilbo Baggins Destroys the One Ring, Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Elf Culture & Customs, Empathic Bonds, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Fauntlings, Gold Sickness, Green Magic, Greentongue, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Hurt/Comfort, Khuzdul, M/M, Mentions of Black Magic Rituals, Other, Overprotective Dwarves, Sindarin, Triads, Virtual Genocide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-22 06:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 37,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOABA/pseuds/SOABA
Summary: When what is left of Bilbo’s world crumbles around him and darkness begins to rise once more in a new and formidable host, he will discover that not even the worst kinds of madness can truly destroy the song of his heart. Piece by piece, with courage and love, the Dwarves of Erebor will bind Bilbo’s wounded soul back together and, in doing so, heal the land and bring hope back to Arda.





	1. Episode One - Shirefall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bubbysbub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbysbub/gifts).
  * Inspired by [If You Go Out to the Woods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408846) by [bubbysbub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbysbub/pseuds/bubbysbub). 



> So, my OTP for the Hobbit has always been Bilbo/Thorin, always. But then I read ‘If You Go Out to the Woods’ by Bubbysbub and I fucking loved it. If you haven’t read that, then you need to, because it is amazing and the absolute pinnacle of Dwagginshield fanfiction. It inspired me to write this, something that was definitely a unique experience as I had never written a Triad pairing as the primary pairing in a story before. I was also influenced by the eighteenth chapter of ‘The Return of the King’ and decided to take what happened to the Shire a step, or twenty, further.
> 
> This episode is but the first of many, so no one freak out if things you expect to happen do not. You would not expect the first episode of a television show to neatly resolve everything, so please don’t expect this to. READ THE TAGS, there are warnings there for subjects that may trigger you. Do not skip reading them and then complain to me that something I warned for has upset you – I will not tolerate that and will, promptly, delete your comment.
> 
> Also, I realized while writing this that I’m not very nice to Hobbits on the whole. They’re either, as a people, quite awful, (like in my Kismet series), or, if they’re nice, I kill most of them off, (like here, the ‘virtual genocide’ tag is there for a reason, people). One of these days, I will write a nice, fluffy story about sweet Hobbits who live in peace all of their lives, but today is not that day.
> 
> I have very, very little respect for canon. I’ve screwed with timelines and ages and geography and more – I’m an AU fanfic writer, it’s what I do. If this bothers you, then you should probably find something else to read, (perhaps the original book, because no piece of fanfiction can actually be considered canon, unless Tolkien’s ghost is into writing AUs of his own work, but I don’t find that very likely). 
> 
> All of my Sindarin comes from an online dictionary and should be, mostly, accurate. My Khuzdûl is a mash-up of several versions of the language that have been presented over the years, (as, apparently, no one can decide which version is actually correct), so I spent three weeks creating my own dictionary a while back, that I now use as I see fit, (very little of the “accepted” Khuzdûl is canon anyway as Tolkien didn’t make it up himself except for a few key phrases). I based Greentongue off of the Welsh language, because it’s beautiful.
> 
> Thanks ever so much to my fantastic Beta, who painstakingly combed through all of this nonsense to ensure that it wasn’t utter rubbish. I owe you two dozen chocolate chip cookies and, quite possibly, my soul, but we’ll sort that out later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Green Magic of the Hobbits has always kept the dark creatures that stalked the shadows of their Mother’s beautiful earth at bay… until the night that it, inexplicably, did not.

**_Episode One - Shirefall_ **

_July 24 th, 2942, Third Age – The Kingdom of Erebor_

Freedom.

It was a marvelous, wondrous thing – a gift that Thorin had taken for granted nearly all of his life. If it had not been for his mind becoming enslaved by the seas of glittering gold in the Treasury, if he had not experienced the shackles of sickness and avarice being fastened around his heart and soul by the Arkenstone, that beautiful, dangerous, _damned_ stone, then Thorin may never have realized how precious his freedom was.

The Arkenstone was gone now, destroyed. Thorin had shattered it beneath the _Baruk Bavonaz Dohyaraz Ra Gimlaz_ with extreme prejudice and then Dwalin had collected each and every shard and ground them all into a fine, glitzy white powder. The dust had been carefully swept into a chest of cold iron, which was, subsequently, buried so deep within the Vaults under the Treasury and behind so many Dwarven seals that, Thorin was utterly certain, no part of the cursed stone would ever see the light of day again.

The very next day, it was proved that the obliteration of the Arkenstone had the approval of Mahal – Mithril, the most precious of metals and the Maker’s greatest gift to his children, was discovered in a old mine that was long thought to have run dry of precious minerals. Never before had Mithril been discovered in any mountain save Moria and Thorin’s people took it as a sign of immense hope for the future. Thorin had been pleased as well, for every good king hoped and wished for the prosperity of his people, but not even a blessing from the _Adadel_ could wash away the burning shame and noxious guilt which had plagued him from the moment that the shroud of gold lust had fallen away as the land of Mordor erupted into flame.

The gold sickness was gone, but so was Bilbo Baggins.

The travesties that Thorin and, on a lesser scale, Dwalin had committed against their little husband were beyond reckoning. Thorin, especially, had been little better than a monster in the days directly preceding and following the Battle of the Five Armies. Almost worse than nearly casting Bilbo to the rocks below the ramparts, was the emotional injury that Thorin had dealt to the Hobbit. His vile words and malicious actions had been undeniably despicable – and Thorin regretted them all, more than he could say.

He, Dwalin, and the rest of the Company had immediately begun making preparations to journey to the Shire and even planned to stop in Rivendell on the way, because there was the distinct possibility that their Lucky Number could be visiting his favorite uncle, the Lord Elrond. The Princess Dís would be arriving on the thirtieth of July and, once Thorin had declared her as his temporary Regent, because Fíli and Kíli refused to stay behind – even though they were the only ones who had not behaved disgracefully toward Bilbo – the Company could then depart from Erebor on a most sacrosanct mission to beg Bilbo’s forgiveness and convince him to return to the Mountain.

Never again would Bilbo be made to feel as if he was anything less than absolutely perfect. Thorin would see Bilbo happy for the rest of their days – that was his solemn oath.

But then Gandalf had arrived, without warning, in Erebor just that morning, looking tired and sad and _greyer_ than usual and Thorin’s insides had frozen over even before the Wizard had spoken a single word.

‘ _I felt that it was… for the best that I inform you, in person, before the rumors could reach you, Thorin, Dwalin. Sauron is, indeed, no more and never again shall Arda be plagued by the threat of his reign. His Ring was discovered by chance, taken to Mordor, and then destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom, thus killing him. The one who accomplished all this, as witnessed by the White Council and every Elf of Lothlórien, was the Prince Consort Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. I’m terribly sorry, but he perished mere minutes after destroying the Ring, the poison in the land and air of Mordor overwhelmed him before any could reach him to offer aide.’_

Bilbo, their sweet, cunning, beautiful, beloved Hobbit was _dead_. He had died, alone and afraid and believing that the husbands who had sworn to protect, honor, and cherish him for all time had cared _nothing_ for him in the end. He had drawn his last breath in a land of fire and hate and darkness, sacrificing his life to destroy Sauron and free the Dwarves whom he loved beyond measure from the Dark Lord’s spell.

Thorin Oakenshield and his people were free from the dark curse that had plagued them for so long, but the price demanded for that sovereignty had hardly been worth it.

‘ _He sacrificed his life to give you back your minds and to protect the kingdom that you worked so hard to reclaim,_ ’ Gandalf had huffed at them, reading their broken hearts skillfully. ‘ _Don’t you dare belittle that sacrifice by throwing away your lives or by abandoning your duties._ ’

No, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield would never disgrace their Burglar, their husband, their brother in such a manner – not ever again. If Bilbo had been so desperate to give them the chance to live, to rule, to be free, then they would, for him. They would honor him in this, in all things for the rest of their lives in this world and maybe, maybe, they would have the privilege of begging his forgiveness in the next.

Dwalin had fled the Throne Room before Gandalf had been able to speak anything else and Thorin had barely managed to croak out a formal dismissal of the Court before he was running out too. He had gone to the Forges, to an out of the way, little used workroom, and had collapsed to his knees, weeping bitterly. Only when the hour was much too late, did Thorin find the strength to rise again and stumble toward the Royal Wing.

Thorin found Dwalin sitting on their bed, a scrap of bright green cloth cradled in his palms – Bilbo had sprained his wrist during their escape from Mirkwood and Óin had bandaged it. Bilbo had been upset, not because of the injury itself, but because of the white bandage Óin used, as Hobbits only ever wore white at funerals and to do so at any other time was considered to be dreadfully unlucky. Though amused by their beloved’s petulance regarding something as simple as color – and Thorin could freely admit now that they had been stupidly and almost callously dismissive of an important aspect of their husband’s culture – Thorin and Dwalin had bought green and aquamarine ribbons so that Bilbo could cover up the white with them.

His wrist healed by then, Bilbo had removed the ribbons and bandages on the night that he was first shown to the Apartments of Carven Stone, the suite of the King and his spouse or spouses. The bandages he had tossed, but the ribbons Bilbo had laid out reverently on one of the dressers, treating even these inexpensive gifts from his husbands with the utmost care. Even in the midst of their madness, neither Thorin nor Dwalin had considered throwing them away.

Heart laden with grief, Thorin picked up the aquamarine silk still resting on the dresser and rubbed it between his thumb and index finger.

“What have we done?” Dwalin entreated mournfully and Thorin turned to see his husband looking up at him with bloodshot eyes and an expression of utter devastation marring his features. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks and his entire body quivered in anguish, “Oh, Thorin, what have we done?”

************************************************************************

_April 2 nd, 3, Fourth Age – The Shire_

The Shire was, without a doubt, at its most beautiful during the spring.

The rolling hills were cloaked in the brightest of greens and the little rivers sparkled in the sunlight as they babbled and danced through the peaceful and prosperous land. Flowers bloomed everywhere, painting the horizon in a rainbow of color and wafting their sweet perfumes generously for the gentle breezes to catch and spread, while vibrantly shaded butterflies and bright yellow bumblebees flitted to and fro from patch to patch. The berry bushes were heavy with the fat, jewel-toned fruits that grew liberally from them and red clover and mustard shot up wild and abundant across the fields.

The sky was nearly always blue and the sun’s rays were like a warm blanket, what rain came was sure to fall softly, nothing like the rain of the summer storms. The shades of dawn and dusk were flamboyant and the stars were utterly dazzling each and every night during the spring, as if they too were celebrating the end of winter, like the Hobbits who lived and loved in the lands of the Shire.

Bilbo Baggins, certainly, saw the end of this winter as a cause for celebration.

Winters in the Shire were, typically, fairly mild. What little snow fell at night was sure to be melted by midday during a normal winter season, the rivers and streams would stay thawed, and one really only had to bundle up a bit to keep oneself warm. But, this past winter had been different from most others – it was not nearly as bad as the Fell Winter, though, and thank Eru for that – with snow piling up high against the doors and windows almost every night and large chunks of ice forming in the still lakes. There had even been a blizzard one night!

Had such a winter come five years earlier, Bilbo would have hardly paid it any attention. Extra snow would have meant that he had a plausible excuse to tuck himself inside Bag End for days on end, weaving and painting and writing and reading his favorite books by the lit hearth. He would not even have to emerge to restock his larders because Bilbo knew better than to have an insufficient stock of food and drink when winter came knocking. Only a fool would have bare cupboards or empty pantries or unfilled cold cellars when the last of the leaves turned red or orange or gold, because winter always came swiftly after that.

But, being a bachelor during an unusually strong winter was much different that being a parent during such a season. It changed, well, _everything_.

Nine months earlier, Bilbo’s favorite cousin, Drogo, and his wife, Primula, had left their fauntlings, Bella Rose and Frodo, in Bilbo’s care while they went out boating. It was not the first time that they had done such a thing; they usually went out on the river three or four times a month while Bilbo watched his niece and nephew for an afternoon. But, on that particular cursed day, a summer storm had unleashed itself upon the Shire, beating down against the earth in a manner ferocious and unyielding and devastating.

Bilbo had been in the middle of preparing some gooseberry pies for Tea, as Bella Rose drew a garden of flowers on paper with hunks of colored wax and Frodo banged out a discordant rhythm on a pot with a spoon and sang the first line of a nursery rhyme over and over, when he felt his Kin Ties to Drogo and Primula being ripped away, one after the other, without warning.

A wounded gasp had escaped his lips and he had sunk to his knees as the fauntlings in his care began to sob in horror and pain. The death of their parents and the loss of their Nurture Bonds had left them with a gaping darkness in their hearts that threatened to swallow their souls and steal them from Arda – no fauntling could survive without a parent and only rarely could tweens.

Acting on sheer instinct, Bilbo had done what any Hobbit worth the earth and flowers and green that their Mother had used to fashion them would do in order to save them.

There were a few – Lobelia, who had long desired Bag End to pass to her own son, and her ilk – who had murmured in discontent when they learned that Bilbo had claimed Bella Rose and Frodo as his children with his heart and soul and that the fauntlings had claimed him as their papa in return, because it had been expected that the children would _choose_ Primula’s sister and her husband should anything happen to Prim and Drogo, but those few were altogether ignored by anyone and everyone of importance. It was no secret that Drogo and Bilbo had become as close as brothers since Bilbo’s return from the East, or that Bilbo was Bella Rose and Frodo’s favorite uncle, and, besides all of that, the Nurture Bonds between Bilbo and the fauntlings were healthy and hale, with absolutely no sign of bond rot, and such a thing held far more weight than anything else.

So, in the course of a single rainy July afternoon, Bilbo became a father to a then three year-old girl and an almost two year-old boy whom he swiftly came to treasure, and worry over, above all else.

The first month of parenthood had been almost ridiculously easy on Bilbo. The fauntlets were still adjusting to their new Nurture Bond and so needed more sleep and food than other faunts their age would. Those first few weeks had mostly consisted of lots and lots of cuddling, Bella Rose and Frodo needing their papa’s touch, and the devoted love that came with it, on a near-constant basis. After that first month, though… well, things had changed.

Bella Rose and Frodo were sweet, clever, and well-behaved fauntlings, really, and nothing at all like the terror that Bilbo had been as a faunt. They had never thrown a temper tantrum – at least not in Bilbo’s experience – they loved stories and singing and dancing, rarely disobeyed him, and were always eager to “help” their papa in the kitchen or in the garden. It was just… they were curious, overly curious about, well, _everything_ and seemed to have no concept of fear whatsoever.

Being hunted across the Wildes by Orcs and the Nazgûl, riddling with Smaug, stealing into Mordor to destroy the One Ring – none of those things had been nearly as terrifying as being a parent was. Bilbo could testify to that.

Dragons and Dark Lords were nothing compared to watching your daughter decide to hop across chunks of ice from one end of the lake to another, sick with the knowledge that she could slip and fall in at any moment and there would be nothing you could do to save her because you cannot bloody swim. Or having to dive across your snow covered lawn to prevent your son from sticking an extremely poisonous winter flower into his mouth because he loves everything purple. Plus, you can not even soothe yourself after these kinds of things happen because drinking liberally doctored tea, or wine, or honey mead, or ale on a regular basis is not what any responsible single parent of two precocious fauntlings, that are completely dependent on you, should be doing.

Or so Bilbo’s grandmother, the formidable Laura Baggins, had insisted, as she accentuated every other word of her fierce and lengthy lecture – she had caught Bilbo pouring brandy into a half-empty teacup during the Giuli feast at her smial – by smacking Bilbo on the head with her cane. Bilbo had not dared to touch a drop of alcohol since.

All of this meant that Bilbo was quite relieved when spring arrived, a bit later than it usually did, because spring meant that every respectable Hobbit in the Shire would be planning to have a garden party, such as the one he was currently attending. And the most wonderful thing about garden parties were that they were held in gardens, which were nearly always large areas – full of _safe_ flowers and fruits and vegetables and herbs – that were surrounded by sturdy stone walls designed to keep out unwanted animals. These walls also kept fauntlings who liked to wander _in_.

Before he had dashed off on his mad, heartbreaking adventure, Bilbo had _loathed_ garden parties. It was great fun for the children, they got to roll around in the dirt and chase each other round the flower beds and swing from the fruit trees, but for Bilbo, who was expected to sit in ornate chairs at ornate tables and make quiet, polite small talk with the other adult Hobbits present, well, they were a rather dull way to pass the time. Bilbo would have much preferred to be sitting quietly in Bag End reading or studying his maps or cultivating his own garden or doing just about anything else, really. Especially since the favorite topic of conversation at these parties, before Bilbo had up and vanished for a year and a half, would inevitably be when Bilbo was finally going find himself a nice husband or wife – and the general consensus was that it should be the latter, so that Bilbo could gain himself a ‘proper’ heir to Bag End. Bilbo had hosted a party or two every year, because it was expected of him, and then accepted as few invitations to other garden parties as he possibly could get away with.

After he had returned to the Shire and everyone had discovered – because Gandalf had told his Took relatives, the meddling old coot, and they had spread the news so quickly that it had reached Hobbiton before Bilbo even had, both proud of Bilbo and incensed on his behalf – what he had been up to, no one had dared speak of spouses or heirs to him again, as it was an incontrovertible truth that Hobbits loved only once. Still, he had avoided garden parties, because he had found, while in the Wildes with his Dwarves, that he much preferred deep, loving, and sometimes blunt to the point of rude conversation about important things over seasonal gossip and idle chatter.

Then, he had discovered how handy it was to be able to keep Bella Rose and Frodo corralled inside a garden, tumbling with the other faunts their age, for several hours and he had promptly accepted every single invitation for a garden party that had arrived at Bag End – he had even accepted the invite to Lobelia’s party, something he had deeply regretted within minutes of his arrival at her home – and since Hobbits were very good at scheduling around each other, that meant that Bilbo could take his fauntlings to garden parties almost every single day and sometimes twice, once in the late morning and once in the late afternoon. His shocked relatives and acquaintances had come to the conclusion that parenthood had settled him and had made him a much more sociable person that he had been before and Bilbo, who had no desire whatsoever to experience shot nerves again or to find any more grey hairs amongst his red-gold curls, did not dare correct them, lest the invitations stop coming.

(Though, admittedly, it had only been one grey hair and Bilbo was mostly certain that its discoloration had been caused by Bella Rose upending a bag of flour in an attempt to help him make first breakfast. Bilbo was only fifty-four, after all, and much too young to be getting grey hairs.)

Most garden parties were relatively intimate affairs, but, occasionally, they could be quite grand, especially when hosted in one of the larger gardens. Bag End’s garden, for instance, was the largest in all of Hobbiton and was only smaller than two gardens in all of the Shire – the garden of the Thain in Tuckborough and Esmeralda Brandybuck’s garden in Buckland, which had been a wedding present from her husband, Saradoc. Also quite large was the garden of Rufus Burrows and his wife, Asphodel, one of Bilbo’s Brandybuck cousins.

Asphodel, who was certainly not known for having more than a modicum of restraint, had invited quite a lot of people to her afternoon garden party that day. More than she should have, really, as a number of her guests could not actually fit into her sizable garden and were milling about inside her smial and atop of it. Among her guests were several of Bilbo’s Took and Brandybuck cousins, who had flocked to him quite eagerly upon spotting him.

“Aren’t they adorable, all playing together like that?” Esmeralda gushed happily from her seat on Bilbo’s left side, speaking about the fauntlings.

Frodo was tottering around the begonias at a near run while Samwise Gamgee, the youngest son of Bilbo’s gardener, chased him. Every minute or so the two older boys would stop their game of tag to hug Meriadoc, Esmeralda and Saradoc’s only child, and Peregrin, Paladin and Eglantine’s son, both of whom were still too young to properly walk and who were occupying themselves by crafting mud pies.

Bella Rose was playing hide-and-seek amongst the tall sunflowers with Celandine, the third child of Seredic and Hilda Brandybuck, Melilot, Marmadas Brandybuck’s daughter, and the twin Took boys, Isengrim and Isumbras, who were the youngest of Hildigard II’s brood. Bella Rose laughed and spun around, her ebony curls bouncing and her emerald eyes sparkling.

“I think that perhaps I need to visit Tuckborough and Buckland more often,” Bilbo admitted as he watched his daughter and son ramble with their cousins. A series of sudden warm waves washed over him and he inhaled sharply, “Yes, we definitely should.”

“We’ll be thrilled to have you,” Marmadas promised through a mouthful of blueberry tart, merriment dancing his purple eyes. “It wouldn’t do to keep fauntlings who are companion-tethered apart.”

The forming of a new Companion Tether, the precursor to the Kindred Bonds that a faunt could begin to form once they entered their tweens, was always something to be joyful about. Kin Ties, the links between relations, a faunt inherited from their parents, settling at first touch, and existed whether they wished for them to or not, but Kindred Bonds were of their choosing and were, often, so much stronger, as a result.

“Certainly not,” Hilda, whose dark red curls her daughter had inherited, agreed emphatically.

“I’m so very glad that Bella Rose has finally formed tethers,” Bilbo told them. “She turned four in January and we’ve been to so many parties, she’s been around every other child in Hobbiton, but, until today, she had no tethers to speak of. I was beginning to worry about it.”

“Some faunts are just picky,” Eglantine assured him. “Drogo certainly was and it seems like she inherited his shyness too.”

“You should come back with us to Tuckborough and spend a week or three in the Great Smials,” Paladin suggested. “Uncle Hildigrim will be more than happy to have his favorite sister’s only child close by again – you know how he frets. The faunts can spend more time together, play with the older ones that we left back in Brandybuck Hall, and you’ll get a break from Lobelia Sackville-Baggins trying to swipe your silver on her daily visits to Bag End.”

“Are you heading back tonight? It’s rather late in the day,” Bilbo pointed out. “There’s no place safer than the Shire, of course, but accidents do happen more regularly at night.”

“We’re leaving in the morning, Mr. Fuss,” Esmeralda told him, laughter in her eyes. “We’re staying at the Green Dragon tonight.”

The Green Dragon was a lovely little inn, of course, but it was really meant for the merchants who came to Hobbiton from other parts of the Shire to sell their wares. Visiting family members should not have to stay there when they could just as easily stay with her kin.

“Oh, I do wish you wouldn’t,” Bilbo frowned. “There’s plenty of room at Bag End for all of you.”

“Next time, cousin,” Seredic replied. “We’ve already paid for the night and it wouldn’t do to go demanding refunds. Besides, we, er, already turned down Asphodel, you see. I’d never hear the end of it if she learned that we agreed to stay in Bad End tonight.”

“Why don’t the little ones stay at Bag End tonight then?” Bilbo suggested. “Bella Rose will adore having friends over and Frodo will be ever so upset if his friends can’t stay over too.”

Bilbo would invite little Samwise, as well, because if ever there was a person whom Frodo would create a Companion Tether with as soon as the time came, it was Sam. Hamfast and Bell were sure to agree – they were good friends of Bilbo’s and were quite pleased that their son and his were so close.

“If you insist,” Eglantine smiled warmly. “I would hardly say ‘no’ to a quiet night with my husband.”

“Or, you know,” Paladin drawled slyly, “A not so quiet night.”

“Hush you,” Eglantine laughed, blushing as Paladin winked saucily at her.

“So, will you?” Hildigard II questioned Bilbo then, “Come stay in Tuckborough for a bit?”

“I would like that very much, yes,” Bilbo responded.

“Abandoning Bag End again are you?” a loud, irksome voice rang out and why Asphodel had felt the need to invite the owner of said voice, Bilbo simply could not fathom.

“Good afternoon, Lobelia,” Bilbo sighed, pouring himself another cup of the sweet rose and vanilla tea that Asphodel had provided for her guests. “My _cousins_ and I were just talking about my taking a holiday to see the rest of my _family_ in Tuckborough tomorrow.”

“Perhaps you should stay there,” Lobelia proposed snidely. “That way you won’t be disgracing Hobbiton with your presence. Your good father would have been so very disappointed in the way you turned out – wild and so very unHobbitish.”

“My father married a Took,” Bilbo returned wryly. “I think it’s rather safe for all of us to assume that he was rather fond of _wild_ , Lobelia.”

“But he would be rolling over in his grave to know that his son was so worthless that even his Melodies cast him away,” Lobelia spat, causing Bilbo to stiffen perceptibly. Lobelia caught the action and she smirked in satisfaction as her barb hit home, “That the only thing his son was good for in their eyes was a quick tumble in the sheets as if he were a three-copper whore.”

“How dare you!” Esmeralda hissed through her teeth.

“Bilbo is a hero,” Paladin growled out. “We all owe him our lives, you bitter harpy.”

“You and your husband can not have Bag End, Lobelia,” Bilbo’s voice was quiet and firm. “Your son will never inherit it, either. My _Will_ is quite ironclad in that respect, so you had best turn your attentions elsewhere.”

“My husband has a _right_ to that smial,” Lobelia retorted. “He’s the closest Baggins cousin that you have, closer in relation to you than the birth father of those unworthy brats of yours was.”

Bilbo stood abruptly, furious, and it must have showed, because Lobelia took a step back in alarm, “If you ever speak about my children again with anything less than absolute respect, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, I will go to my grandmother and insist, as the Head of the Baggins Family, that she stop providing your no-good, freeloading husband with his monthly allowance. Do you understand?”

Mortification blossomed on Lobelia’s face – it was well-known that Otho was fairly useless at, well, anything, but that Laura Baggins was providing her grandson with funds out of her own pocket was something that very few knew. Except, quite a number of people knew now, Bilbo realized with a slight twinge of guilt, registering then that he had not exactly kept his voice down while articulating his threat.

Without another word, Lobelia all but ran away, her hands fists at her side.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Seredic intoned, sounding far more gleeful than, perhaps, he should have.

Bilbo sat back down and picked up his tea, draining it, “Blast and confusticate that wretched woman.”

Hilda refilled his teacup for him, “Are you alright?”

“Fine, thank you,” Bilbo replied a bit too quickly.

“Bilbo,” Eglantine began hesitantly, “Maybe, now that time has passed enough for tempers to have cooled, your Dwarves might-”

“No,” Bilbo said shortly. “Sorry, but no they’ll… they’ll not have forgiven me. Dwarrow ever bear grudges and what I did… well, there’s no point in hoping that they ever shall.”

“I’m so sorry,” Esmeralda put her hand on Bilbo’s arm gently, and Bilbo felt gentle rushes of sisterly affection touch his heart.

It hurt, being separated against his will from his husbands, to have their Melodies missing and knowing that he would never feel his Heart-harmony again, of course it did. Less painful, but still distressing, was being apart from the eleven Dwarves whom Bilbo had claimed as Kindred. It had hurt far more before he had claimed his children with his heart and soul.

Instinctually, Bilbo lifted a hand to his heart, to feel the folded paper that he had carefully tucked into the inner pocket of his waistcoat, as he did every morning. It had been his final act of burglary, an unintentional one, leaving Erebor with the Dwarven map in his pocket. He had forgotten that he still had it – Thorin had shoved it at him on Durin’s Day, when he thought the chance to enter Erebor had been lost, and Bilbo had slipped it into his coat without thought – until he was already rushing toward Mordor to rid Arda of the Ring. The map had been a comfort during the long, arduous trek to Mount Doom – it had been his only tangible reminder of the Dwarrow whom he was risking his life for.

Thorin and Dwalin had made their choice, had chosen gold and a shiny rock over Bilbo without blinking. The love that they had claimed to have for Bilbo had been tested and found lacking – neither Fíli nor Kíli had been touched by the madness that took the rest of the Company, protected by their love for the women that the Valar had decreed were their Ones.

Bilbo shrugged then, dropping his hand to his lap and burying his grief and longing as deeply as he was capable of, “It is what it is. I may not have _them_ , but I am content, here, in the peace of the Shire, surrounded by my kin. Besides, Yavanna has see fit to gift me with my sweet Bella Rose and my dear Frodo and I would not give them up for all green in Arda.”

Or for all of the gold and jewels in Erebor.

************************************************************************

_July 10 th, 2942, Third Age – Caras Galadhon in Lothlórien_

“I want to go home,” Bilbo announced steadily, interrupting the Very Important Debate – a heated conversation, read argument, about what Bilbo’s next move should be – between the male members of the Very Important White Council. Saruman wanted Bilbo to be tucked away in Isengard, Gandalf wanted Bilbo to wander the Wildes with him, and Elrond thought that Gandalf was a terrible Godfather – what with having dragged Bilbo into facing both a dragon and the bloody Dark Lord – and, clearly, Bilbo should live with his uncle and cousins in Rivendell. So far, none of the self-important dunderheads had bothered to ask Bilbo where he wished to go.

To the seven hells with _that_.

“I am going home,” Bilbo decreed as they turned to look at him, blinking in surprise as if they had forgotten that Bilbo was there. Which, considering that they were standing not five feet away from the bed Bilbo was convalescing in, in the room that the Lady Galadriel had graciously provided, was rather irritating.

“Now, Bilbo-” Gandalf began.

“Don’t you ‘ _now, Bilbo_ ’ me, Gandalf Greyhame,” Bilbo snapped rudely. “I am going _home_ , back to the Shire. Back to Bag End. And see if I ever leave it again. I am quite done with adventures, thank you very much.”

“I am not certain that such a course of action would be wise,” Saruman argued arrogantly. “Every Orc in Middle Earth will know the name of the one who destroyed their Master by the end of the month. The price on your head will be worth a fortune. You _must_ come to Isengard, where you will be protected.”

“No Orcs can enter the Shire,” Bilbo countered dismissively, waving off the Wizard’s annoyingly persistent offer. “The Green Magic of my people is much too strong to allow such dark creatures to cross our borders and no Orc in Arda has the means to dull our magic’s potency with another Fell Winter that would allow their Wargs in.”

“Orcs may not be capable of passing into the Shire,” Elrond spoke, his voice gentle but sorrowful, “But Men and Dwarves are, _Gwathelion_. The promise of such gold as the Orcs are sure to offer for your head will be more than enough to tempt bandits from all regions to try their luck against the Dúnedain Rangers in order to get to you. You’ll be putting the Rangers and your own people in grave danger should you return to your homeland.”

Bilbo frowned as he considered that, “Then… then tell them all that I’m dead. The men and the dwarves, tell them that I died in Mordor. Neither the Elves of Lothlórien or Rivendell will breathe a word of my survival if I do not wish it and my people would never confide in strangers anything to do with a fellow Hobbit.”

“That is the most ridiculous-”

“The sickness plaguing the minds of those in Erebor has passed,” Galadriel cut Saruman off from her place at Bilbo’s side. The Lady of Lothlórien had been silent up until that point, content to sit on the edge of Bilbo’s bed, sending strength and light into Bilbo’s weakened body through the connection of their clasped hands, and watch the heated debate between her fellow Council members. She turned to Bilbo then, “When you destroyed the Ring, and Sauron with it, every bit of Sauron’s power faded from Arda, including that which the Arkenstone contained.”

“It was evil, then,” Bilbo murmured mournfully. “I thought it was, but I could not be sure if what I was sensing was the stone itself or remnants of the dragon’s power.”

“We could send word to Erebor, if you wish it,” Galadriel suggested, prompting Saruman to mutter something unsavory under his breath about her consuming mushrooms, which resulted in both Gandalf and Elrond glaring fiercely at the White Wizard.

“There would be no point. Whether it was cursed or not, I committed high treason when I took the stone. Dwarves do not forgive such things,” Bilbo swallowed the desire to weep. “I am glad that they are free, that they are safe, finally, but my going to Erebor is completely out of the question.”

Bilbo did not say that, even _if_ his husbands had found it within their power to forgive him, he was not sure that he could forgive Thorin and Dwalin for the hurt they had dealt him. He did not believe that he could ever trust them again or would ever fully lose the fear that they had placed in his heart because of their actions. He loved them, would die for them without hesitation – would march into the very heart of Mordor for them – but the greater the distance between his husbands and he, the better.

‘ _Do not abandon hope, Ernil uin Glaur_ ,’ Galadriel’s voice echoed in Bilbo’s mind, ‘ _For love can conquer all dark things_.’

‘ _Hope is a very dangerous thing to have… and they never loved me, not as I love them,_ ’ Bilbo replied before speaking aloud, “Please, I want to go home.”

“If home is where you wish to be, then home you shall go,” Galadriel promised. “We shall perpetuate the myth of your death to safeguard you.”

Elrond and Gandalf nodded in acquiescence, albeit reluctantly, and Saruman huffed and crossed his arms, but did not argue as he was clearly outnumbered.

“Thank you,” Bilbo relaxed back against the pillows behind him.

“I’ll go to Erebor myself,” Gandalf decided. “I’m heading in that direction already, to clear out Dol Guldur of the Mewlips that have infested it. It shouldn’t take long and then I’ll return here to escort you back to the Shire. You’ll be healed enough for the trip by then.”

“The two of you can winter in Rivendell,” Elrond offered. “I don’t like the idea of him traveling in the snow and across the ice.”

“Yes, that’s an excellent idea,” Gandalf agreed. “And then we can cut through the Trollshaws on our way from Rivendell to the Shire, maybe enjoy a spot of excitement or two.”

“Gandalf!” Elrond protested.

“Oh, do calm down, I’m only joking,” Gandalf rejoined, unconvincingly.

Bilbo sighed.

************************************************************************

_April 2 nd, 3, Fourth Age – The Shire_

“…And the whole time they were arguing… arguing about how they were going to cook us! Whether it be turned on a spit or minced in a pie or whether they were going to sit on us one by one and squash us into jelly!”

Cela squeaked in alarm and buried her face in Bella Rose’s arm.

“But they spent so long arguing the whether-to's and why-for's that the sun's first light crept over the top of the trees without them realizing it and turned them all to stone!”

The children whom were gathered around Bilbo giggled and cheered in delight and amusement.

“Trolls are stupid,” Bras decided, standing up in one of Bilbo’s armchairs with his tiny hands on his hips. “When I’m big, I’m gonna turn all of ‘em into stone!”

“We can go Troll hunting,” Meli clapped her hands.

“And get our own special glow swords!” Grim bounced in his seat.

“And then go to Rivendell,” Bella Rose added, turning her big emerald eyes on Bilbo, “Papa, can we _please_ go see the Elves?”

“Elves,” Frodo echoed. He, Sam, Merry, and Pippin were curled up on the floor in a thick nest of blankets, the younger two already drifting.

“Perhaps, when you’re much older than you are now, little one,” Bilbo replied mildly. “The Wildes are no place for fauntlings, no matter how brave and clever they may be.”

Bilbo had not left the Shire since his return, not even for a quick jaunt to Bree, and he had very little intention of ever doing so again. He’d had enough misery, terror, and heartache pressed upon him during his last expedition, thank you very much. Maybe, one day, he would find the heart to visit Rivendell again, but he could content himself with penning frequent letters to his uncle and cousins who lived in the Valley and reading their letters in return, until that day came – if it came.

“What happened to you and your Dwarves next, Uncle Bilbo?” Cela asked eagerly.

“Well, we knew that the Trolls must have had a cave where they could hide from the sun and that meant… a Troll Hoard,” Bilbo relayed dramatically, making the faunts’ eyes light up. “Now, Troll Hoards are nasty, smelly, damp places that one does not wish to spend any amount of time in if you help it, but Trolls have an eye for shiny things and if you can locate a Troll Hoard, you will find yourself with quite a bit of wealth. My companions and I found just such a cave and inside was a nice bit of treasure. There was gold, to be sure, plenty of it, though most of it was covered in Troll slime and oozing sludge, but there was also, hidden in the corner, a collection of beautiful swords of Elven make.”

“Like _Sting_!” Bella Rose interjected, pointing to the mantle, upon which Bilbo had mounted the Elven Dagger that had served him so well.

There had been quite a lot of raised eyebrows and muttered comments regarding the sword being out in the open, but Bilbo had ignored them. At least he was no longer sleeping with it in his bedroom, propped up against his side table – as he had those first few months after returning to the Shire – anymore. The idea of Bella Rose or Frodo accidentally harming themselves or each other because the sword was within their reach had been the catalyst for his decision to mount it. Mounted, too, was _Amdir_ – Elrond had decided that if Bilbo was going to foolishly follow Gandalf into a dragon’s den, then he was at least going to have access to more than one weapon, and had so the Elf had commissioned the black cherry recurve bow inlaid with hundreds of tiny sunstones while the Company had been in Rivendell – over Bilbo’s desk, while the matching quiver and sunstone-capped arrows were tucked away behind some of Bilbo’s books, where little fingers could not easily reach.

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, “Like _Sting_. There was _Glamdring_ , the Foe-hammer, which dark creatures called Beater and feared, upon which was etched many runes and had dozens of gemstones attached to its hilt. Gandalf claimed this sword, and a good thing too, for the Lord Elrond insisted that only in Gandalf’s hand would _Glamdring_ fulfill its purpose in Middle Earth.”

“What purpose?” Grim inquired curiously.

“Well… no one really knows,” Bilbo admitted, “The runes on it are vague, but what is known is that the sword shall glow only once.”

“Not like _Sting_ , right, Uncle?” Meli asked.

“That’s right, Meli. _Sting_ , like _Orcrist_ , glows blue whenever Orcs or Goblins are near. Both were made by the same Elven Lord at the same time, to be companions to one another, and so bear identical markings and have an identical purpose – to fight the foulest of creatures which walk Middle Earth.”

“Does _Amdir_ have a purpose too, Papa?” Bella Rose questioned.

“All Elven weapons do,” Bilbo answered. “For Elves consider nothing more dishonorable than taking up arms without a clearly stated reason and so all Elven weapons are etched in runes which speak of their purpose. _Amdir_ was given to me for the purpose of providing hope even in the darkest of times – _Amdir_ does not glow blue, for it is not fashioned out of Elven steel, but the stones set into it glow brightest in the dark.”

“Did you use _Sting_ and _Amdir_ during your adventures, Uncle?” Bras wanted to know.

“Many times,” Bilbo told the faunt, “Far more often than I would have liked, to be honest.”

“But wasn’t it fun?” Bras asked. “To be a hero like in all the fairytales?”

“Weapons are tools, not toys, Bras,” Bilbo corrected gently. “Swords, spears, axes, bows, these things are meant to protect you. They are not meant to play with.”

“Oh,” Bras pouted, “But-”

Bras cut himself off, his honey gold eyes widening in shock, and in nearly the same breath Bella Rose cried out in alarm, pointing once more toward the mantle, “Papa!”

Bilbo turned and stiffened in mystified horror, his blood turning to ice in his veins and his heart freezing over, because the utterly impossible was happening – _Sting_ was glowing blue.

“Uncle?” Cela whispered in fright, “Why’s that happening? You said…”

Bilbo rose and scooped Merry and Pippin into his arms immediately, blankets and all, “Listen to me, Fauntlets, everything will be fine, I promise, but you need to follow me quickly and quietly, _right now_. Bella Rose, take Frodo’s hand, and Grim, take Sam’s. We’re going to the wine cellar.”

They followed after him, pressing close, as he led them to the lowest part of Bag End. Bag End’s wine cellar was large and stocked with many bottles of the finest Shire vintages, but this was not what made it remarkable. No, what made it truly special was the addition that Bungo had added to it at the behest of his well-traveled wife – a secret room, hidden behind a shelf of wine bottles and accessed by pressing on the center of one specific flower carved into the shelf’s side.

Bilbo opened the room and ushered the little ones inside. He set Merry and Pippin back down on the blankets, “Stay in here and keep as quiet as you can.”

“Papa, don’t go,” Bella Rose begged, gripping Bilbo’s hand.

“I must, I have to go help the others, sweetling, your aunts and uncles and our neighbors,” Bilbo told her. “I promise you, I am coming back. Keep quiet, now.”

Bilbo rushed out, sealing the hidden room behind him, and sprinted back up to the main floor of Bag End, his heart pounding wildly. Back in the study, _Sting_ was still glowing ominously and Bilbo could hear the screams of his friends and neighbors coming from outside. How, in Yavanna’s name, could _this_ be happening?

Bilbo grabbed _Sting_ from over the mantle, drawing her from her ornate silver sheath, which he threw to the floor in haste. He spared a moment to contemplate grabbing _Amdir_ as well, but decided against it, because, by the sounds of things, what battle Bilbo would be forced into was going to be much too close range for the bow to be truly effective.

That moment of indecision would prove to save his life. For, if he had not paused then, he would have reached the door of Bag End just as it was blown apart without warning by a wicked, bloodstained axe and been impaled and killed by the thick splinters of wood that went flying through the air and embedded themselves deep into the walls of Bag End’s foyer.

As it was, Bilbo was still safely in his study when the door was broken down with such excessive force and was, therefore, able to press himself close to the wall, concealed by a bookshelf, as something _large_ stomped into Bag End. Bilbo would have a much better chance of killing whatever foul creature had invaded his home if he could catch it by surprise.

“Ringbearer!” the creature roared, his voice sharp and grating, “Come out and play. My Master wishes to see you.”

Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat as self loathing stabbed at him, like a hundred knives piercing his chest at once, and thick, noxious guilt threatened to choke him as it crept over his heart and up his gullet. The creatures were here for _him_. Hobbiton was under attack and his people were being slaughtered – and it was Bilbo’s fault.

Bilbo swallowed, forcing the bile that had been rising up back down, and lifted _Sting_ into the air, swiftly and silently, transmuting his shame into rage, into a weapon that he could wield as easily and with as much efficiency as his sword. _Warrior’s Fury_ , Dwalin had named it during those few lovely, languid days at Beorn’s house as the Company rested and healed, when Bilbo had been trying to explain both to the others and to himself why he had not been afraid to step between Thorin and Azog, why he had not hesitated to kill.

‘ _Let it aide you,_ ’ the memory of Thorin’s voice echoed in Bilbo’s head, ‘ _But do not let it control you, **Khajmel**. That can be just as dangerous as fighting without hope that you can win._ ’

‘ _No matter how bleak things seem, there is always hope,_ ’ Dwalin had insisted.

Bilbo waited until the creature’s shadow was almost upon him before springing out, using one of his armchairs to gain enough height that he was able to swing _Sting_ down in a single, sharp motion that severed the creature’s head from its body before it ever realized that it needed to raise its own strangely shaped weapon. The body slumped to the floor, black blood spurting out from the severed neck – and Bilbo barely avoided being sprayed by it – as the head rolled for a few feet before coming to rest by the base of Bilbo’s writing desk, the expression on it forever fixed in shock.

By the Green Lady’s Mercy, the creature Bilbo had felled was as big as Azog had been and a strange white handprint marked half of its face. This was no Orc, at least no kind of Orc that Bilbo had ever seen or heard of before.

A piercing, agonized scream from outside caught Bilbo’s attention and he began to run toward the front of Bag End. A loud, worrying groaning sound coming from directly above him made him pause in the foyer. Something snapped suddenly and then the roof of the entrance hall gave way, sending Bilbo skittering backward. But not quickly enough, as the brass chandelier that Gandalf had always found so irksome came down and struck him in his left temple.

Bilbo lost his grip on _Sting_ , and she clattered to the floor as Bilbo collapsed to his knees and then onto his front. As muffled shrieks continued to filter into Bag End, Bilbo’s world went dark.

************************************************************************

_October 25 th, 2941, Third Age – The Kingdom of Erebor_

The Dwarves who had seized him from the encampment and had roughly dragged him inside of the Mountain shoved Bilbo to his knees before the throne, before Thorin and Dwalin, with far more force than could have possibly been necessary. He hit the stone flooring hard, hard enough that he would certainly have brilliant purple-black bruises on his hands and arms in a matter of mere minutes.

Bilbo looked up to see the faces of his husbands contorted in sharp loathing and deep scorn – their odium directed solely at him. Their eyes glittered in a way that they should not have, they were almost black instead of the beautiful shades of blue that they should have been, and the gleam was proof that they were still deep under the thrall of the gold that had stolen them from Bilbo.

“ _Fy Alawon_ ,” Bilbo tried, only to be brutally cut off.

“Silence,” Thorin hissed furiously. “You are not permitted to speak, traitor.”

Bilbo stood defiantly, “I don’t care one whit about having your permission, Thorin Oak-”

The sound of flesh sharply meeting flesh sounded as Thorin slapped his face hard enough to knock him back down, “Speak again and your life is forfeit!”

Bilbo stared at his husband, too shocked to find his voice, his cheek stinging terribly. Maybe he should not have been, after what had happened on the ramparts, but he _was_. He had dared to believe that Thorin had only behaved so despicably in the heat of the moment, in his enraged astonishment of learning what Bilbo had done with the Arkenstone. Learning that this was not so was… heart shattering.

“You have committed an act of High Treason against the Kingdom of Erebor, against all of Durinsfolk, and against your King,” Thorin growled out. “Were you anyone but my husband, I would have already signed the warrant for your execution. I nearly did anyway – you have the Princes to thank for getting to keep your miserable life, Burglar, for they begged me to spare you from facing the sharp end of an executioner’s axe.”

Fíli and Kíli, those precious, rambunctious, wonderful boys. Their minds and hearts had never once wavered, no matter how much gold they were presented with. And now Bilbo owed them his life.

“Henceforth, you are to be known as an enemy of the _Khazâd_ and are banished evermore from the Kingdom of Erebor,” Thorin decreed mercilessly. “We cannot legally divorce you, but I can and do revoke your right to call me and my Consort your husbands. I revoke your right to wear our beads and braids. I revoke your right to touch Mithril and should you ever in the presence of a Dwarf after this day, know that you will lose your hands. I revoke your right to speak Khuzdûl and should you ever in the presence of a Dwarf after this day, know that you will lose your tongue.”

“You will return the marriage beads and gifts immediately,” Dwalin ordered, as impervious to Bilbo’s obvious heartbreak as Thorin was.

It was with shaking hands that Bilbo unstrapped the Mithril and Everbright Steel knives that he had secured to his belt and stripped off the coat of Mithril that he had been wearing over his shirt and under his jacket. Dwalin snatched the items, which had been his and Thorin’s marriage gifts to Bilbo, away violently, eliciting a flinch from Bilbo.

“The beads,” Dwalin snapped, when Bilbo hesitated.

Bilbo opened his mouth, but stopped himself before he articulated that he could not remove the two dozen Mithril, red, blue, and purple diamond beads even if he had wanted to do so. The complex braids had strange knots at the ends that he simply had no idea how to undo. Unable to speak, he gestured helplessly at the three slim and ornate braids on either side of his face.

“Fine,” Dwalin told him. “I’ll do it myself.”

Before Bilbo realized what was happening, Dwalin had slipped one of the knives of its sheath and was slicing through the hair that framed the right side of Bilbo’s face. A choked gasp escaped Bilbo’s lips as Dwalin did the same to the hair on the left. Six reddish gold braids adorned with shining beads were clenched in Dwalin’s fist when Bilbo dared to look.

Hair was sacred to the children of Mahal and Bilbo could vividly recall how fiercely the Company had opposed Bilbo even trimming his own on the one – and only, because Bilbo was not the kind of person who attempted stupid things more than once – occasion that he had tried in their presence. Several of them had burst into tears when they saw Bilbo holding a knife to his unruly curls. That Dwalin could now so easily shear clumps of Bilbo’s hair off was proof, absolute proof, that the love which Dwalin and Thorin had declared to hold for him had faded away.

“Should you ever dare return to this kingdom, you shall die in that very hour,” Thorin swore viciously. “Is there anything you wish to say before I have you thrown out of my kingdom?”

“Just this,” Bilbo replied, as steadily as he could. “The danger that I warned you of several weeks ago has not passed and… I love you both.”

For a moment, just a moment, the darkness in his husbands’ eyes seemed to lighten. But then it was back, as horrible as ever.

“Get him out of our sight,” Thorin ordered coldly.

Bilbo spun on his heel and marched out before the Dwarven guards could grip his arms again, leaving his heart in tatters in the Throne Room. He walked and kept walking until he found Gandalf, or perhaps Gandalf had found him, and then he let his sorrow drown out everything else.

************************************************************************

_April 3 rd, 3, Fourth Age – The Shire_

Bilbo woke in considerable pain, every inch of his person aching right through to his heart. His head was pounding, but the cut from the chandelier was a minor thing compared to the deep wounds that his soul had sustained while he slept.

The Orcish creatures had departed, _Sting_ was no longer glowing, but Bilbo had been dealt a severe blow.

They were gone, his Hobbit kin, almost all of them. Nearly every single one of the Kin Ties that Bilbo had possessed just a few hours earlier had been severed. The majority of his relatives – his aunts, uncles, grandmother, cousins, nieces, and nephews – they were devastatingly _gone_.

All that remained were…

Bilbo’s eyes widened and he forced himself to his feet. He rushed, staggering in pain and residual dizziness, to his cellar and into the secret room. His nieces and nephews and Sam were all whimpering in agony, writhing on the floor, as Bella Rose and Frodo desperately tried to soothe them.

Bilbo fell to his knees and pulled them all close to him infusing his words with the most instinctual of Green Magic, “ _Gwyrdd Mam, Fi Daliai Rhain Plant Fel Fy_ _Feddais Efo Fy Galon Ac Fy Enaid Hyd-ddyn Yr Diwedd o Amser_.”

Seven new Nurture Bonds blossomed to life as he finished speaking, green and purple and gold light dancing around them all in the shapes of vines and flowers, connecting Bilbo irrevocably to the trembling faunts before him. Their pain faded as he flooded them with love and safety by touching each one of their frightened faces in turn.

“There, there, little loves, everything is alright now,” Bilbo pacified them. “I’m here and nothing can harm you.”

“Papa,” Celandine whispered, “What’s happened?”

“There were Orcs… weren’t there, Papa?” Bras asked sleepily.

“Yes,” Bilbo replied, “But they’re all gone now. Let’s go upstairs and get you all tucked into bed.”

“Can we have biscuits first?” Grim tried, perking up a bit.

“Certainly not.”

“Aw,” Grim whined, deflating.

“Will you sing us a lullaby?” Meli requested, “Please, Papa?”

“Lul-by,” Sam repeated, nodding vigorously.

“As you wish, fauntlings.”

Only once Bilbo had settled all the fauntlings into the largest bed in Bag End – which his mother, and Bilbo after her, had always maintained for Gandalf – and only after the others were all asleep did Bella Rose turn to Bilbo and say, “They’re all my brothers and sisters now, but they weren’t during story time, Papa.”

In time, Bilbo knew, Bella Rose would not be able to remember that her new siblings had not always been such. It was how Green Magic worked, to safeguard the minds and hearts and souls of those too young to fully comprehend it. Already, Bilbo had proof that Cela, Meli, Grim, and Bras could not recall their birth parents and he suspected that Sam, Merry, and Pippin could not either.

“Fate has gifted them to us,” Bilbo told her, because he really had no better way to explain what had happened. He could not, would not, tell her the full truth. How did one explain to a child what had happened that night, or the night before, rather, as it was just after midnight, _how_?

“And we get to keep them?” Bella Rose inquired.

“We do,” Bilbo confirmed. “For now and for always.”

“Good, I’m glad we get to keep them. I love them. Sweet dreams, Papa,” Bella Rose yawned, wiggling further

“Sweet dreams, dear heart,” Bilbo returned.

Bilbo wished that he could go to sleep as well, could pretend that everything was as it had been the day before for just a few hours, but there were things that he had to do first.

The Orcish creature’s body, and blood, and head were no longer fouling Bilbo’s study. In their places were vibrant purple flowers with bright green stalks and leaves – a side effect of Bilbo’s magic. They were rather beautiful and Bilbo almost enjoyed looking at them, would have, in fact, had he not known what they had been before.

Bilbo gathered them all up and carried them outside, through the back door that led into his garden, dumping them into a sack he pulled from his shed, which he then tossed to the far end of the shed to rot. _Sting_ attached to his hip, just in case, Bilbo steeled himself to hunt for any Hobbits who might have survived the massacre. He exited his garden and rounded the bend that would lead him to the caved-in front of his smial… and then had to vomit into the nearby bushes.

There were corpses littered in every direction that he looked. Not one of the Hobbits lying in heaps, their eyes gouged from their sockets or glassy, had died painlessly. Entrails were strewn everywhere and many of the bodies, especially the younger bodies, had large chunks missing from them in the shape of ravenous mouths.

Carefully, painstakingly, he moved through them, checking for any sign of life, no matter how small. He found his cousins, terror etched into their inert faces, not far from his smial – they must have tried to fight their way to Bag End, to their children. It was like losing his parents all over again, seeing his exuberant relations so utterly lifeless.

“I’m so sorry,” Bilbo whispered, closing their eyes for them. “I will take care of your babes, I swear it. I’m sorry, so terribly sorry.”

He located the Gamgees in their smial, gratified that, at least, none of them had been eaten alive. The Orcish creatures must have been in a rush by the time that they had reached the Gamgees, or _full_.

Bilbo threw up again.

The dawn was not far off by the time that he trudged back to Bag End, having checked every corner of Hobbiton and concluded the worst – he and the fauntlings that were slumbering in his smial were, almost certainly, the only Hobbits who had survived the night. Hobbiton had not been the only part of the Shire attacked, the loss of his kin in Tuckborough and Buckland was proof of that.

By Yavanna, had it really only been yesterday afternoon that Bilbo had stood amongst far too many Hobbits at Asphodel’s garden party? How could there now be _none_? How had the shield, after standing the test of time for centuries, have _failed_?

Bilbo climbed to the highest part of Bag End and looked out over the carnage before him. He could leave them all like this and so, as the first rays of sunlight broke over the eastern horizon, Bilbo began to sing.

“ _Gan Yr_ _Briddellau_ _Chi_ _Dardda’,_ _Gwyrdd Ac_ _Newydd_ ,

_Yna_ _Roedd_ _Felly_ _Llawer_ _I_ _Cheisia_ _Ac_ _Felly_ _Llawer I_ _Gweithredu_.

_Efo_ _Chwerthin_ _Ac_ _Caru_ , _Chi_ _Dwyn_ _Gwawl_ ,

_Cymera_ _Gobeithio_ _Byth_ _Mewn_ _Yr_ _Tywyllaf_ _O_ _Nos_.

_Fyth_ _Rhy_ _Buan_ _Yn_ _Yr_ _Cannwyll_ _Llosgi_ ,

_I_ _Yr_ _Briddellau_ _Chi_ _Rhaid_ _Rŵan_ _Dychwelyd_.

_Ond_ _Ofna_ _Ni_ , _Amdani_ _Yr_ _Gwyrdd Mam_ _Aros Am_ _Chi_ ,

_Mewn_ _Caeau_ _Fyth_ _Gwyrdd_ , _Odani_ _Nennau_ _Fyth_ _Glas_.

_Erioed_ _Anghofiedig_ , _Fyth_ _Chara’_ _Chi_ _Bydd_ _Fod_

_Mewn_ _‘R_ _Byd_ _O_ _Mherffaith_ _Harmonïau_.”

As he sang, the Hobbits around him began to transform, white light bathing each and every single one of them. Each became a stunning white and gold lily, which caught Bilbo off-guard, because when other Hobbits sang the Funeral Song, a mass of small white flowers was always the result. An unseasonal wind whipped through Bilbo’s hair and caused the lilies to spiral up into the air and drift westward – in a matter of minutes, there was no trace of any of the other Hobbits whom had called Hobbiton home.

Bilbo took a deep breath and then began to climb back down into his garden. He and his faunts could not remain in the Shire – he had to, somehow, get them to Rivendell, to the safety that could be found in the Valley of Imladris, in his uncle’s house – and Bilbo had work to do.

************************************************************************

_October 11 th, 2941, Third Age – Esgaroth_

_**Juzrur gandi uh ana zu,** _ **_akhùthuzh_ ** _**ul.** _

_I solemnly swear myself to you, for all eternity._

_**Nê** _ **_zirikh_ ** _**izu uh agrîf,** _ **_gandi_ ** _**zu âzyunguh, ra** _ **_yânj_ ** _**i furkhuh ni furkhizu** _ **_akhùthuzh_.**

_If you would have me, I vow you my love, and fold my life into your life eternally._

_**Zatabalhi Ana Zu.** _

_I belong with you._

_**Mâ Akhùthuzhur Zurkur Ze.** _

_We will forever be as One._

Bilbo had never believed that he would marry, but here he was with _husbands_ , two of them, in fact. Two proud, strong, wonderful Dwarven husbands who loved him just as desperately as he loved them. Their Melodies fused with his to form the most perfect _Galon-harmonïau_ that had ever existed – and they were his, as he was theirs, for evermore.

Typically, Dwarves carefully heeded to the complex courting rituals of their clan – and the courting rituals, Bilbo knew, because it had taken Balin five and a half hours to explain them, of the Longbeards were convoluted indeed – and then had lavish, elaborate bonding ceremonies with as many witnesses as possible. Thorin and Dwalin almost certainly would have observed every single one of these rituals with supreme care had Bilbo not fallen ill their first night in Lake-town. Apparently, he had terrified them out of their wits when he had collapsed in the entrance hall of the house that the Master of Esgaroth had provided for the Company during their stay.

It had been no more than a bad cold, brought on by his being forced to stay half-submerged in the cold water of the river that flowed out of Mirkwood for hours on end, but it had served to induce Dwalin to suggest an elopement and had been enough to convince Thorin to agree to such. The two Dwarves had reasoned that they could not risk Bilbo being denied entrance into the Halls of Mahal should they neglect to secure his place at their side, especially since they were all about to face a blasted Dragon. Since Bilbo had, in all honestly, not cared one whit about _how_ he was to wed his darling Melodies, he had eagerly conceded to the scheme.

The proof of Bilbo’s marriage hung in his hair – the two dozen small beads of Mithril and diamond, though in colors that Bilbo had not realized diamond could be, red, blue, and purple, all fixed with the Royal Mark of Erebor, that were evenly divided between the six ornate braids that framed his face – and could be found sprawled, naked, on either side of an equally unclothed Bilbo, curled around him protectively.

The beads had been woven into Bilbo’s hair in private after the vows had been spoken before all of the Company. Two dozen of them, to denote that Bilbo was part of a triad, which were rare and revered. Commissioned by Thorin’s father, Thrain, long before the fall of Erebor, because Thorin and Dwalin had always known that one day they would find Bilbo, the beads were to be worn at all times in public – it was considered a grave dishonor to your spouse or spouses to go out without your beads. If it meant that Dwalin and Thorin would braid his hair every day, then Bilbo would be more than happy to always wear them amongst his curls.

All three of their bodies were glistening with sweat from their earlier lovemaking when Thorin placed what had to have been his hundredth kiss on Bilbo’s skin, even as Dwalin rubbed gentle circles into his stomach with his clever, clever fingers, “I am sorry that we can not, yet, provide you with a marriage ceremony that you deserve, _Ghivashel_.”

“I don’t mind, Thorin, truly,” Bilbo replied, nuzzling at Thorin’s palm when the Dwarf reached to stroke Bilbo’s face.

“Nevertheless,” Thorin declared adamantly, “As soon as our people have once more settled in Erebor, you shall be celebrated in the grandest wedding rite that the Mountain has ever borne witness to. You will be draped in Mithril and adorned with a hundred golden roses.”

Something _strange_ flashed through Thorin’s eyes then, something that left Bilbo feeling oddly disconcerted.

“That might make it a bit difficult to walk, darling,” Bilbo said lightly.

Thorin smiled and Bilbo’s unaccountable anxiety bled away, “That’s what the throne is for, _Madtithbirzul_ , so you do not have to.”

“It’ll have to be redesigned,” Dwalin muttered sleepily, “T’was not made for more than one.”

“It shall be,” Thorin assured him. “I never liked the throne my grandfather used after my grandmother’s passing anyway. A new throne for three people, a triad throne, and new crowns for us, as well.”

“You shan’t wear the Raven Crown?” Dwalin sounded moderately surprised.

“It would not suit me,” Thorin explained with a slight shrug. “It, too, was designed for my grandfather. I rather thought polished obsidian and Mithril, cut in the frame of the _Emùlhekh_ pattern, and set with blue diamonds.”

“Aye, that’ll make be a crown fit fer a king,” Dwalin agreed.

“Do I have to wear a crown?” Bilbo asked plaintively, wrinkling his nose a bit because he was almost certain what the answer was going to be.

Thorin chuckled lightly and kissed his nose, “I’m afraid so, _Lukhudel_. As a Prince Consort, it would be inappropriate for you to go bare-headed in public once Erebor has been reclaimed.”

“Something not too heavy, then?” Bilbo requested. “I’m afraid my neck is not quite as sturdy as Dwarven ones.”

“Of course,” Thorin replied magnanimously. “I would not dare dream of allowing harm to befall any part of you, least of all your fragile neck.”

“I’m not _fragile_ ,” Bilbo huffed.

“No, but you are infinitely precious,” Dwalin breathed against Bilbo’s skin, the heat sending shivers down the entire length of Bilbo’s body. “Our beautiful husband.”

“And one of the two most loved beings in all of Arda,” Thorin said, hugging Bilbo and Dwalin close, and Bilbo marveled at how safe and happy he felt in that moment, as if nothing could ever cause him harm or grief again. “ _Melhekhaz_ _Ughvashâ_.”

************************************************************************

_April 4 th, 3, Fourth Age – Bree_

Bree, Bilbo discovered when they reached it at dusk, had been just as desolated as the Shire had been.

It seemed like the Orcish creatures had been dreadfully thorough in their mission to rid Arda of Yavanna’s sons and daughters. Hobbits and Men were stacked in great, reeking piles of flesh and bone in every direction that Bilbo looked. He thanked the Green Lady that he had possessed the foresight to close the shutters of the wagon, which the faunts were riding inside of, as they had approached the small town.

Bilbo had left Bag End with his faunts just before dawn that morning, having located a merchant’s wagon in what remained of Hobbiton’s marketplace, after coaxing a quintet of skittish ponies and one stubborn goat into Bag End’s garden, the day before. He had loaded it down with travel supplies, crates of food and drink – Bilbo had cooked up a storm while the faunts slumbered, preparing his special version of Lembas Bread, to which he had added honey and either blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries, or lemon and poppy seed to increase its potency, cheese and bacon oatcakes, smoked meats, and honeycakes, which all kept well – cases of flower powders, trunks of clothing, bags of medicines, and chests of money. Books that could not be replaced, worn wooden toys that Bilbo had owned as a faunt, and the most precious of heirlooms were packed as well and Bilbo had crammed a goose-down mattress inside of the wagon at the front for the fauntlings to sit or lounge on as they traveled as well as a large stack of brightly colored, mallard-down, patchwork quilts to keep them warm, into which Bilbo had sewn as much gold as he could stuff in without it being noticeable.

Bilbo had basically emptied all of the money niches in Bag End; for he was no freeloader and he would be able to pay for himself and his children, even if they were living in his uncle’s home. He had the gold from the Troll Hoard, as well, and several tapestries and paintings of his own make that he had been meaning to sell, but had not gotten around to doing, which the Rangers that visited Rivendell’s markets would almost certainly purchase, as many of them had been fond of his work for years.

Leaving Bag End for what he knew would be the last time had been much too easy. Perhaps, this was because, in his heart, it had stopped being home five years earlier or, maybe, because he was still in shock from the attack. Either way, he was gladder than he had any right to be, to be back on the road, and after everything he had said about never leaving the Shire again, too.

The short trip out of the Shire and through the outer edges of Breeland had been uneventful – if one discounted Bryony, the goat, refusing to follow behind the wagon for a solid half-hour, before finally trotting along in a sulk, the silly creature. Bilbo had kept _Sting_ by his side as he drove the wagon and had tucked _Amdir_ in the cubby beneath his seat, but he’d had no cause to use either of the weapons, as he had half-expected to. All had been quiet and peaceful, too much so, really, and as the walls of Bree had gradually materialized in the distance and Bilbo had passed not a single soul he knew… knew that his hope that Bree had been spared the rampage which the Shire had suffered was misplaced. Because, there _should_ have been Rangers, and traveling merchants, and river fishermen crossing Bilbo’s path, but there were none to be found.

With a laden heart, Bilbo sang the Funeral Song once more, to give light to the poor souls who had been unjustly cut down, so that they might find the paths to their respective afterlives in Valinor with greater ease. White and gold poppies were mixed with the lilies this time, dancing all together in the wind.

Bilbo clicked his tongue against his teeth and steered Diamond and Emerald in the direction of a nearby stable. As much as Bilbo would have liked to keep going, straight into the Old Forest where no Hobbit could be tracked unless they wished to be, he knew that the ponies needed rest and the faunts, especially Bella Rose and Frodo who did not need as much recuperative sleep as their new siblings, would surely desire a chance to stretch their legs after being cooped up in the wagon nearly all day. So they would take shelter in the small stable for the night – there was less chance of bandits raiding a supposedly empty stable than them doing the same to a well-stocked inn – and would, hopefully, reach the Old Forest by mid-afternoon on the following day.

If luck was on their side, they could be safely ensconced within Rivendell in just over a month.

Bilbo drew the wagon to a halt inside of the stable and then opened the shutters to the sight of nine curious faces peering up at him, “Who’s hungry?”

As the faunts ate – the older five consuming oatcakes and fried potatoes and the last of the milk while the younger four sucked down rose nectar out of bottles, Merry and Pip were still much too young for any kind of solid food and Frodo and Sam needed such only sparingly until they turned four – Bilbo fed and watered the ponies and the goat, tucking them inside a few of the cleanest stalls. Attached to the stable, was a set of rooms that must have belonged to the stable’s master and in the cold box Bilbo found two dozen eggs, a slab of bacon, and, though they were hardly Bilbo Baggins quality, what was still a nice batch of tomatoes. He could cook it all up in the morning and it would serve as a pleasant, hearty breakfast.

After supper had been consumed, Bilbo chased the fauntlings around the sweet bales of hay in a backwards version of tag. His new sons and daughters tired out quickly and so the game did not last very long. Bella Rose dragged from the wagon a large tome of illustrated Elven fairy tales – a book that had been a gift from Bilbo’s favorite uncle on his eleventh birthday – and asked ever so sweetly for Bilbo to read aloud from it, something he was only too happy to do. His relatives had been rather scandalized by the book, as Hobbits were supposed to _give_ presents on their birthdays, or their parents for them if they were not yet tweens, not receive them from any but their mothers and fathers.

One by one, the faunts drifted off to sleep in the nests of blankets that Bilbo had fashioned for them atop the loose hay, soothed by the gentle timbre of Bilbo’s voice. Bilbo returned the book to the wagon once Grim, who had fought through his exhaustion valiantly for longer than Bilbo thought he could, had surrendered to his need for rest. He moved silently through the stable, ensuring that the doors were properly secured and the windows were all bolted and covered.

These tasks finished, Bilbo took a deep, shuddering breath and felt some of his numbness ebb away. As his precious little ones dreamed not a dozen feet away from him, something profound within Bilbo finally cracked. Losing the strength to stand, he sank to his hands and knees and wept bitterly into the hard earth below his fists.

His people were _gone_ ; the Hobbit race was no more and Bilbo was to blame. By defying the Dark Lord, Bilbo had brought the worst kind of attention to his kind. He had loaded the crossbow and aimed it – all that the master of the Orcish creatures, whomever he was, had to do was pull the trigger. And pull it with extreme prejudice they had.

“Yavanna,” Bilbo sobbed a prayer, his heart and soul fraught with guilt and anxiety, “Yavanna, please. Please, help me. I’ve ruined everything but I must keep them safe, please, _help me_ , Mother.”

He was not truly expecting anything to come of his entreaty, he hardly deserved the Green Lady’s favor, so when a green, glowing sprout sprang up from the damp earth under his hands it elicited a soundless cry of fright and made him scramble back a few feet. As he watched in awe, the sprout grew and grew, so much faster than any plant had ever grown before, taking the form of a full-grown, blossoming cherry tree in the span of ten minutes. It was a good thing that he had backed up, for strong roots rippled through the earth in all directions by the time the tree had reached its full width and height.

Twenty-eight dark red cherries appeared next, budding fat and heavy on the branches. The fruit fell when they became too heavy for the branches to hold them, hitting the ground and splitting open to reveal what was inside of them. Nine tiny mail coats of green metal leaves, nine bows of the same strange metal embossed with hundreds of runes, nine quivers full of sharp, bright arrows, and a walking stick of cherry wood shot through with green veins, the wooden parts covered in more green runes.

“Thank you, Mother,” Bilbo’s fingers curled around the walking stick, stroking the glossy staff reverently. Protective Green Magic seemed to emanate from it – Yavanna had not abandoned him after all – and, suddenly, Bilbo knew that they would make it to the Valley of Imladris, that they would survive.

There was hope even the darkest of times.

************************************************************************

_September 15 th, 2941, Third Age – The Elvenking’s Halls in Mirkwood_

“You do not look well,” Thorin stated, looking extremely displeased by this state of affairs.

Dwalin cupped Bilbo’s cheek in worry, “Mahal, _Gayadê_ , when did you last sleep?”

Warmth flooded Bilbo for the first time since the Company had entered the wretched forest that the Elves in Thranduil’s Court were haughty enough to still call the Greenwood. He wondered if the sensation of knowing that these two Dwarves cared about him so deeply would ever cease being so completely wonderful and hoped, in his heart of hearts, that it would not.

“What does that mean?” Bilbo dared to ask. “You both keep calling me things and they sound nice but I don’t understand them.”

Dwalin opened his mouth, froze, and then side-eyed Thorin, as if seeking his permission to explain.

“It is called Khuzdûl,” Thorin announced, as if he had made some great decision. “It is the sacred language of the _Khazâd_ , the ‘Dwarrow’, given to us by our _Adadel_ , the ‘Father of all Fathers’, Mahal. It is not permitted for outsiders to know it.”

Bilbo blinked, “Oh, I’m sorry, I-”

“But you are no outsider,” Thorin continued, stroking a hand through Bilbo’s curls, which Bilbo suspected were in desperate need of a good wash at that point. “You told us that you have claimed the Company as your Kindred in the ways of your people and they named you _Nadad_ , ‘brother’, and _Idad_ , ‘uncle’, in the ways of our people in return. This alone would make you as good as a Dwarf according to Dwarven law. You are also our _Umùrad’akar_ , our ‘One’. For these reasons, you are permitted to learn it, if you wish, Ghivashel.”

“I do,” Bilbo all but whispered.

“ _Gayadê_ means ‘my joy’,” Dwalin told him, his inky indigo eyes fiercely passionate as they stared at Bilbo even as his voice was achingly gentle. “ _Laslel_ , ‘rose of all roses’, _Ukradel_ , ‘greatest heart of all hearts’.”

“ _Ghivashel_ , ‘beloved’, _Lukhudel_ , ‘light of all lights’,” Thorin continued, his words like silk running over Bilbo’s skin, “ _Khajmel_ , ‘gift of all gifts’, and _Madtithbirzul_ , ‘little golden heart’.”

Tears slipped from the corners of Bilbo’s eyes, unbidden, “You… I love you both rather desperately.”

Watching them smile was like watching the sun rise on the first day of spring, miraculous and inspiring of the most profound awe.

“We always knew that we’d find you,” Dwalin said joyfully, “But we’d begun to lose hope after so long of waitin’… you are worth every moment of that uncertain time, Bilbo, every single one.”

“ _Mâzyung Zu_ _,”_ Thorin spoke tenderly, and Bilbo did not need him to translate to understand.

“ _Yothur_ _N_ _i_ _dif_ _Furkh_ _,”_ Dwalin added.

Bilbo smiled at them brightly for a moment, before his smile faded.

“Bilbo?” Thorin questioned, “What’s wrong?”

“I would rather like to go punch Thranduil for locking you up in here,” Bilbo huffed, “I can’t hug you properly with bars between us. If I thought it would help, I would go to him as the Lord Elrond’s nephew and try and demand that he release all of you, but that might only make things worse.”

“Oh?” Dwalin raised an eyebrow, “Don’t yer uncle and the treeshagging, poncy bastard who calls himself a king like each other?”

“Seven hells, _no_ ,” Bilbo muttered. “Thranduil’s racism knows few boundaries and, for all that my uncle has embraced his Grace, he _was_ born half-Man. Plus, well, my uncle’s wife chose him over the Elvenking long before Elrond was hailed as a Lord, which Thranduil took great insult from. My uncle would not care one way or another, except, when my aunt was kidnapped by Orcs, Thranduil allowed the creatures to pass through his lands unhindered to punish her for not marrying him, and so both Elrond and the Lady Galadriel despise the Elvenking now. I don’t believe that Thranduil would kill me if I went to him – Elves, on the whole, look at Hobbits and see walking, talking flowers that they need to cherish because we’re Yavanna’s children – but he could _use_ me against my uncle and I don’t want that.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin instructed with startling solemnity, gripping the fingers of Bilbo left hand tightly, “You will _not_ reveal yourself to the Elvenking for any reason, promise me this.”

“I promise,” Bilbo replied earnestly. “I won’t have to. I _will_ find a way to free you, I swear that too.”

“We know ya will,” Dwalin said, faith infused in the words. “Our Hobbit has never let us down, even when we insulted ‘im terribly and gave ‘im every reason to.”

“I’ve found that I’m quite capable of forgiving that,” Bilbo assured them both.

“We deserve it not,” Thorin commented in self-reproach.

“I do believe that _I_ have the right to decide that, not either of you, my darlings,” Bilbo remarked lightly. “Fíli and Kíli have been calling me something that’s not quite _Idad_ , almost since the day that we departed Hobbiton.”

“ _Idadith_ ,” Dwalin clarified. “It’s to differentiate between the three of us. They call Thorin ‘ _Idad_ ’ and me ‘ _Murkhidad_ ’, which means ‘Shield Uncle’. _Idadith_ means ‘Little Uncle’ in Khuzdûl.”

“I’m not _little_ ,” Bilbo scrunched his nose in mild consternation, because a part of him actually thought that the term was rather sweet, even if he would never admit to it. “I’m actually quite tall, for a Hobbit.”

“You’re quite adorable when you twitch your nose like that,” Thorin told him, almost teasing, “Just like a bunny.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, “Leaving the Shire was the best decision of my life, you know.”

“You called us something, at Beorn’s house,” Dwalin said then, “What did it mean?”

“You mean _Fy Alawon_?” Bilbo returned. “It means ‘My Melodies’ in _Greentongue_. Hobbits don’t use the term ‘One’ like other races to refer to their soulmates; we use the word ‘Melody’ or ‘Melodies’, because together the pair or triad forms a Heart-harmony. Hobbits have a lesser form of empathy, you see, and it’s not so that we _hear_ a song when near our Melodies, but rather that we _feel_ it moving through our souls like the most perfect music. That’s how I recognized the two of you, the night we met. Honestly, I didn’t think that I was part of a Heart-harmony before you invaded Bag End, as not all Hobbits are.”

“You didn’t know that we were out there?” Dwalin sounded astonished.

“If I’d known, then I would have gone _looking_ for you as soon as I came of age,” Bilbo informed them. “Out of all of the gifts that Yavanna gave Hobbits, our Melodies are the most sacred. It never occurred to me that mine might be Dwarves, because, well, such a thing hasn’t happened since Yavanna grew the Heartbridge in the Beginning.”

“Heartbridge?” Thorin repeated in question.

“In the Beginning,” Bilbo recited with care, “Yavanna planted a seed of light and hope and love and laughter and, most importantly, _Green_ deep in the heart of what is today called the Fangorn Forest. From that seed sprung forth the _Mawr Coeden o Gwyrdd Fywyd_ , the Great Tree of Green Life. Nurtured in its roots were the first Hobbits, seven pairs and four triads, who were the start of the eleven original families: The Tooks, the Brandybucks, the Bagginses, the Proudfoots, the Bolgers, the Underhills, the Hornblowers, the Burrows, the Chubbs, the Whitfoots, and the Rumbles. From the heart of the Great Tree, Yavanna willed a Hobbit with hair like fire and eyes the color of the sea to emerge. She was called _Briallan_ , which in Westron would be ‘Primrose’, and she found her Melody in a son of Mahal, though _his_ name was lost to time,” Bilbo finished, shrugging a bit, “As the Hobbits in that age did not keep written records.”

“ _Briallan_ ,” Thorin echoed, his eyes wide in shock.

“Durin’s wife,” Dwalin breathed out. “No wonder he could never find ‘er in any of ‘is other lives followin’ the first one. If she was waitin’ for ‘im in the Shire…”

“We knew that Durin’s wife had been taken from the earth,” Thorin explained to Bilbo, who must have looked as bewildered as he felt, “But we assumed, wrongly so, that she was carved from stone, as our people had the ability to do so in that time.”

“Er, right,” Bilbo bit his lip, “Who, exactly, is Durin?”

Thorin blinked, “He was Mahal’s firstborn, the greatest of the Seven Kings. Me, my sister, and my nephews, are the last of his direct descendents. Dwalin, Balin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Glóin, and Óin are also descendents of Durin, though not directly, and thus are considered members of the Royal Family of Durin by birth as well. All those who consider Erebor to be their homeland and me to be their King are known as Durinsfolk.”

“What do you know of the creation of the Dwarrow?” Dwalin asked.

“I know that the Stone King, the Smith of the Ainur, desired children of his own so desperately that he forged the Dwarven race in secret. When Eru Ilúvatar threatened to destroy your people, Eru’s three exalted daughters – Varda Elentári, the Queen of the Stars and wife of Manwë, Yavanna Kementári, the Giver of Fruits, the Green Lady, and the wife of Mahal, and Nienna, the Lady of Mercy – stepped in and begged their Father to spare them.” Bilbo answered, casting his mind back to the one very brief lesson regarding this topic that he had been given as a small faunt, “Eru was so touched by their pleas that he granted each of Mahal’s children a _fëa_ , a soul, from the Secret Fire. Eru instructed Mahal to also form the Stone Fae as recompense for his clemency in the matter. That’s about all I know about it, actually. I know much more about Elves than I do Dwarves, I’m afraid, but, then, I did spend half of my childhood in Rivendell.”

“We’ll rectify that,” Thorin promised resolutely. “Mahal forged his Dwarrow in secrecy, yes, and he did it deep within the Lonely Mountain. That is something that even the great Elven scholars have always gotten wrong, for they believe that the Dwarrow were crafted in Moria.”

“They think that ‘cause we told ‘em that,” Dwalin revealed. “They bought it, ‘cause Moria is the only place where Mithril has ever been found.”

“Mithril?” Bilbo remarked.

“It is a metal as light as a butterfly’s wings and stronger than even diamond,” Thorin explained. “It was a gift from our _Adadel_ when Durin founded Moria, a blessing upon the kingdom. It is as sacred to us as our language. There is more for you to know, but, I’m afraid that we cannot tell you until you have officially been crowned as a Prince Consort of Erebor. There are laws that even I cannot bend.”

“Prince Consort,” Bilbo’s voice went weak as he came to the realization that, yes, he was in fact the fated of an actual, real-life _king_. He had known this for weeks and weeks, but he had not really let in sink in. But, damn, was it sinking in now. “Oh… I… Hobbits don’t actually have royalty.”

“Gandalf said that yer kind have a Thain, ain’t he kinda like a King?” Dwalin asked.

“I suppose, in the most technical sense possible, yes,” Bilbo tilted his head thoughtfully, “But we don’t bow to him or anything like that. We don’t even really have to listen to him unless the majority agrees with a particular order he makes. Things are a bit different during war times or in times of great danger, like during the Fell Winter, but those times are few and far-between.”

“Hobbits are incredibly odd creatures,” Thorin tweaked one of Bilbo’s curls affectionately.

“At least we don’t get lost while wandering through a town that is all of four square miles,” Bilbo retorted quickly, “ _Twice_.”

Dwalin guffawed in amusement and Thorin made a show of glaring for about five seconds before he was chuckling as well, the sound coursing to the core of Bilbo just as rolling thunder always did, “Your hometown is a ruddy labyrinth, Bilbo.”

“Can you feel our emotions as we have them?” Dwalin inquired a few moments later.

Bilbo shook his head in the negative, “I can send you love and other pleasant things through my touch, but, no, my empathy is nowhere near strong enough for that. I can feel _you_ , your souls I mean, just as I can feel the souls of all of the Company. The bonds between us formed in the instant that we met – Hobbits call such bonds the Bonds of Song. The bonds that I have with the Company are called Kindred Bonds and were formed through conscious choice; though stronger than any of my Kin Ties, they are not as strong as the bonds that I have with the two of you. I can sense that every member of the Company is alive and healthy, I can feel the same from the two of you… and also that you’re in danger.”

“From the Elvenking?” Dwalin guessed.

“No, the two of you have been in danger from the moment that you left Bag End,” Bilbo sighed. “I’m not sure if it’s because of Azog or the dratted Dragon, but you are. That’s why I ran after you, I woke up that morning after you lot had left and felt _that_. I was still cross with you over what you had said, but in that moment I was more terrified than I ever had been.”

“You came after us to protect us, those who had insulted and degraded you in your home,” Thorin said softly. “Oh, _Ghivashel_ , you are a wonder.”

“If I had full access to my Green Magic, my empathy would be stronger,” Bilbo confessed, blushing. “But my grandfather forbid that.”

“Yer magic is a part of you,” Dwalin sounded endearingly offended on Bilbo’s behalf, “He had no right to forbid such a thing!”

Bilbo patted Dwalin’s enormous hand gently, “It wasn’t just me, darling. He decided, and the majority agreed with him, that it had become too dangerous for any Hobbit to unearth their full magic. This happened before I was born, when both my mother and father were still in their tweens, actually. From what I’ve been told, unearthing your magic was something that very few still did, even at that time, as only direct descendents of first three families, the Tooks, the Brandybucks, and the Bagginses, even could and, in the peace of the Shire, there was not a _need_ to.”

“Why was it too dangerous?” Thorin wondered.

“There were Men who coveted what High Green Magic can do when used to its greatest extent and they kidnapped several Hobbits, murdering them when those Hobbits refused to use their magic for dark purposes. Unless it is done in the defensive of one's self or others, Hobbits cannot kill with their magic, you see, not unless we wish to suffer a fate far worse than death, no matter how brutal. One of those Hobbits was my Uncle Hildifons, my mother’s brother. His death nearly destroyed my grandfather,” Bilbo told them. “In the aftermath, unearthing your magic was declared unlawful, for the safety of all, and every artifact and remnant of High Green Magic was destroyed, as well as nearly all the Unearthing Spells. Only the most instinctual of our magic is permitted, now, like the bonds, and the way we give light and love to the earth that we walk, and the funeral song.”

“Your grandfather was the Thain,” Thorin realized.

“My mother was his favorite daughter,” Bilbo said by way of confirmation. “My Uncle Hildigrim is the Thain now.”

“ _Nearly_ all?” Dwalin questioned.

“My mother was opposed to the law and so secreted away one of the Unearthing Spells to Rivendell and gave it to Elrond for safekeeping,” Bilbo relayed. “As far as I know, it’s the only one left.”

Thorin frowned in consideration, “Is the magical protection around the Shire not High Green Magic?”

“Oh, it is, but the spell cannot be undone unless every Baggins in the Shire were to be lost. The shield was rooted in the Baggins bloodline when it was placed, you see, that is why Hobbiton, where the Baggins family is seated, is in the exact center of the Shire,” Bilbo said. “The Baggins line was chosen because those of that line excelled with Defensive High Green Magic, whereas none surpassed the Brandybucks when it came to Offensive High Green Magic.”

“And the Tooks?” Dwalin wished to know.

“Wild Magic,” Bilbo responded, “Which was… I’m not entirely sure how to describe it, actually. It was the closest kind of magic to that which Yavanna used to make us. Tooks used to be able to grow children in their gardens, if they desired to.”

“How… how long do Hobbits live?” Thorin asked quietly after a minute, almost as if he were afraid of the answer.

“Between three hundred and three hundred and fifty years,” Bilbo related, “Sometimes longer if you have Took blood, like I do. I know Dwarves live longer, but you don’t come of age until you’re sixty, yes?”

“That’s correct,” Thorin agreed.

“When are Hobbits considered adults?” Dwalin questioned.

“When we turn thirty-three – we celebrate all birthdays, but every eleventh birthday is especially important, because of the original eleven families,” Bilbo answered sleepily.

“And how old are you?” Thorin’s voice was still tentative.

“Fifty-one, well, _almost_ fifty-one,” Bilbo admitted, before yawning. “How old are the two of you?”

“Thorin’s a hundred and ninety and I’m one eighty-seven,” Dwalin replied. “You need to sleep, _Laslel_.”

“I can’t, not for another hour. That’s when the shift changes and I can slip into the alcove that I’ve been using without anyone seeing the heavy curtains in front of it moving,” Bilbo blinked rapidly to wake himself back up. “Our life spans will just about match.”

Not perfectly, even if the Valar graced them with full, long lives, then Bilbo would still be called into the next world by Yavanna before either of his Dwarves was called by Mahal. He was okay with that, though, because now that he had them, the idea of living without them for any length of time seemed like the worst kind of torment.

“Tell me about Erebor?” Bilbo requested, in a bid to keep himself awake, “About what the Mountain was like before the Dragon came?”

Thorin’s eyes seemed to light up from within, his irises sparkling sapphires flecked at the edges with silver and so light around the pupils that they were almost ice, “There was no kingdom grander or more beautiful than that which called the _Zesulul_ _Abad_ _home_.”

************************************************************************

_April 5 th, 3, Fourth Age – Breeland_

“Papa,” Bras asked a variation of a question that he had posed nine times already that day, “Why can’t I just _hold_ my bow? I _promise_ not to play with it.”

“You may have your bow once we reach Rivendell and once my uncle approves you being trained,” Bilbo replied patiently. “For, though I am skilled enough with _Amdir_ , I would not make a good archery teacher for faunts. You may not touch it until the Lord Elrond shows you the proper way to do so.”

Bras heaved a great sigh and sat back, discontented with his lot in life. Bilbo had shown the faunts Yavanna’s gifts for them, dressing them in the green metal coats but tucking the bows and arrows away.

“Will we get to see your Stone Trolls, Papa?” Melilot questioned, climbing out of the wagon’s window to perch beside Bilbo on the padded driver’s bench.

“Do sit on your bottom, sweetling, not on your knees,” Bilbo instructed gently. “And, no, I’m afraid that we shall not. We’ll be traveling through the Old Forest on the Green Path, which does not cut through the Trollshaws.”

Meli pouted, “But I wanted to see them.”

“Perhaps when you’re older,” Bilbo returned. “But there are a great many beautiful things to see in the Old Forest; maybe we’ll even spot a Faerie or two.”

“Oh, Faeries,” Celandine sighed dreamily. “I would so love to see one of the Green Fae, Papa.”

“Or a Stone Fae,” Grim suggested. “Are there any Stone Fae in the Old Forest?”

“Stone Fae live deep within mountains,” Bilbo told him regretfully, “Not forests.”

“Can we go to a mountain to find one?” Bella Rose wondered.

“Maybe, one day,” Bilbo kept the words vague. He was not permitted inside any of the Dwarven kingdoms that he knew sheltered the Stone Fae. Possibly, his little ones would get the opportunity to seek them out in the future, the far, far future, but he could never. “Look, there, my dear ones. You can see the Old Forest now, isn’t it lovely?”

A flash of ebony moving through the trees to Bilbo’s right caught his eye, but when he looked, there was nothing there.

“Those are big trees,” Meli announced gleefully, snagging the cuff of Bilbo’s sleeve and tugging on it excitedly, recapturing Bilbo’s attention. “I wanna climb one.”

Bilbo chuckled lightly, “They’re Golden and Black Oaks and you may climb them all you wish when we camp for the night, little love.”

“And we get to sleep under a blanket of stars?” Bella inquired, throwing her arms around Bilbo’s neck and resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Yes, little one, we shall get to sleep under a blanket of stars.”

************************************************************************

_April 7 th, 3, Fourth Age – Eastern Edge of the Misty Mountains_

“You should, perhaps, smile a bit more,” Balin chided gently. “He dearly loved it when you and Thorin smiled and the both of you are rather out of practice, _Nadadith_.”

“I’ll smile when I see for me own eyes that he is alive, is healthy and hale,” Dwalin countered quietly. “When… _if_ he can forgive us for what we did to ‘im. There is every chance that he’ll have no desire to see us at all, Balin. Gandalf never would’ve lied to us about ‘is death without Bilbo’s knowledge and consent.”

How desperately afraid must Bilbo have been of his husbands to request that his Godfather do such a thing? Dwalin hated to think on the answer.

“Everything will turn out alright, you’ll see,” Balin responded. “You may have to give him some time to come around, but he will forgive you, eventually, if you beg him to do so for long enough. Hobbits don’t have it in them to hold grudges forever as Dwarves do.”

Dís had been instructed to hold regency over Erebor until the following summer, when Thorin and Dwalin would have no choice but to return to the Mountain to serve their people. Dwalin prayed that this would be enough time to prove to Bilbo that he and Thorin would never harm him, in any way, ever again, enough time to convince their beloved to return with them to Erebor. If not… well, Dwalin was not sure that either he or Thorin would survive losing Bilbo for a second time.

Traditionally, Fíli should have been the one to hold regency, along with his newly wedded bride, Sigrid, but he had flat out refused, insisting on traveling with his uncles to insure that they did not muck up their reunion with Bilbo in any way. Kíli and Tauriel had repudiated their claim to the regency as well, which Dwalin privately thought was a very good thing because both were still far too young and rash to rule.

Their elopement was proof of that.

Unable to stand the thought of having to go through everything Fíli and Sigrid had before they were wed, and wanting to secure Tauriel’s position as his wife so that the young Ladies in the kingdom would leave him alone, Kíli had convinced Tauriel to marry him according to High Elven Law. Because of the ancient treaties, the Dwarven people had no choice but to accept the marriage as valid – Thorin had been more irritated with the pair than even Dís had been, though he had admitted to Dwalin that this was because he had wished to see their nephew marry when the day came.

But then the impossible had happened and Thorin’s aggravation had vanished like smoke in the wind. Tauriel’s soul bond to Kíli had settled and with her magic she had detected something that had left the entire kingdom reeling – Bilbo’s Kindred Bond to Kíli still existed and, therefore, he had to still be alive.

Dwalin had feared the absolute worst in the beginning, thought that Gandalf and the rest of the White Council had presumed Bilbo dead because they could not find him after Mount Doom exploded and that Bilbo had been captured by Orcs or the Pirates who had long been Sauron’s allies. Had Bilbo been a prisoner all that time, trapped and afraid and believing that his husbands hated him?

Dís had been the one to suggest sending a Raven to the Shire. Thorin had agreed, even as he made plans to storm into Mordor, and sent the fastest of the birds, Coroní, west. The Raven had returned a few weeks later with news that brought great relief – Bilbo was alive and, though not as round as the rest of his people, seemed healthy enough to Coroní.

Óin had harrumphed at that and declared that _he_ would decide whether or not Bilbo was well or not, thank you very much. With that, the rest of the Company had decided that they too would be traveling to the Shire, whether they had Thorin’s permission to appoint temporary Guild Chiefs for their respective Guilds or not. They had packed and were prepared for the long journey to the Shire within two days – some of the Lords and Ladies of the Silver Council had grumbled about it, but the great joy of the commonfolk when they learned that their missing Prince Consort, the Company’s Burglar and Lucky Number, the one that the Men called _Sauronsbane_ and the Elves called _Ernil uin Glaur_ would be returning to them, as long as Dwalin and Thorin did not muck things up, had forced the Silver Council to accept it.

The Company, the Princesses Sigrid and Tauriel, Glóin’s son, and a host of fifty of the best Dwarven guards – handpicked by Dwalin himself – were a little more than two months away from the Hobbit homeland, a span of time that seemed impossibly long to Dwalin in that moment.

Dwalin rubbed at the bright green fabric wound around his right wrist, “Bilbo can be more stubborn than even most Dwarves, when he puts ‘is mind to it. You remember how he was in Lake-town, refusin’ to stay abed despite bein’ so ill, cause he was certain that the danger to us had increased. Fee and Kee had to all but sit atop of ‘im.”

“Yes, well, I did say ‘ _eventually_ ’,” Balin reminded.

“I will not blame ‘im if he cannot forgive us,” Dwalin said lowly, his heart twisting in his chest. Unconsciously, he gripped at the silken pouch that hung around his neck, feeling the beads inside of it through the soft material and hearing them clink together softly as Dwalin’s hand shifted them. Thorin wore the pouch’s mate around his own throat and had aquamarine fabric twisted around his wrist. “We treated ‘im despicably, forsook nearly every oath we made ‘im. And for what? The shine of gold that cannot love us back and a cursed stone.”

Dwalin wished that he could have said being under the thrall of the gold had been a torment, that it had been something else controlling his body as he looked on, helplessly trapped in his own mind – as horrible as that would have been, it would have far less shameful and disgusting as the truth of the matter. Dwalin had _liked_ the rush of power that had flooded him while the gold madness lasted, he had _enjoyed_ , in the moment of it, hurting Bilbo, punishing him. It made him want to vomit when he thought about what he had done, what they had done to his little husband, and made him sicker still when he remembered the pleasure that he had derived from his malicious actions.

“His love for you never wavered, not even in those final moments of seeing you,” Balin rejoined. “I doubt that a few years’ time will have destroyed that love.”

But it had been a few years during which Bilbo had marched, all on his own, to bloody _Mordor_ to destroy the One Ring. Who knew what kind of emotional and mental damage the Ring could have wrought upon the Hobbit, or how deeply the poison of Sauron’s land had affected Bilbo’s physical person and spirit?

Thunder rolled fiercely in the distance, seeming to echo Dwalin’s dark, brooding thoughts.

“Do you think we can reach the hidden pass before the storm arrives?” Kíli, riding a few feet away, asked his brother, his sharp archer’s eyes fixed upon the mass of dark clouds on the southern horizon, which were growing ever larger and nearer to the travelers with every passing minute.

“ _Idad_ said that we’re less than half a mile away from the gateway,” Fíli assured. “We’ll be safely inside the mountains in plenty of time.”

Dwalin agreed with his nephew’s assessment of the situation, which was a very good thing – Dwarves were not overly fond of even light rains, and, as a whole, they fairly despised storms deep down to their bones. Mahal had not forged his children to enjoy things like weather and they only ventured out into rain, sleet, and snow when they absolutely had to; the sight of lightning made their skin prickle in discomfort and thunder made their bones ache.

Bilbo liked to watch storms, as long as he was safe and dry inside while they were raging, and had been especially fascinated by lightning storms. Several times during the course of the Quest, Dwalin’s Hobbit had stripped to his underwear and allowed himself to get drenched by the lighter rainfalls, enjoying the feeling of water washing over him – and the feeling of being cleaner.

‘ _Every kind of weather has a purpose,_ ’ he had told them all with a soft smile when pressed. ‘ _Even if it seems terrifying and devastating, it is a part of the cycle that keeps Yavanna’s green earth flourishing. Hobbits cannot help but appreciate such things – though, admittedly, we like to do such from a safe distance away._ ’

A sharp caw rang out and Dwalin looked up to see a black streak hurtling toward Thorin. His hands automatically went to Grasper and Keeper, before he recognized that the streak was a Raven of Erebor – Coroní was approaching them. Dwalin frowned at the sight, the Raven was supposed to be keeping an eye on Bilbo in the Shire until the Dwarves got there. That he was here now did not bode well.

“Coroní,” Thorin lifted an arm for the Raven to land on, drawing his ram to a halt. “Why have you come here?”

“The Shire has been attacked, Your Majesty,” Coroní barked out in urgency. “Strange Orcs crossed the boundaries and decimated it. Your Prince Consort survived, through sheer luck, but he was the only grown Hobbit to do so. He is leading a band of children to Rivendell through the Old Forest and will reach the Valley in just over a month, if he keeps his current pace.”

Blood drained from Dwalin’s face as the news sunk in.

“How can that be?” Bofur demanded. “The Green Magic has never once wavered before.”

“It should have been impossible for Orcs to touch the Shire!” Glóin cried.

“They were, each one of them, as large as the Pale Orc was,” Coroní admitted. “And they were marked by a white hand. They left the Shire and headed northeast, probably to avoid detection. They did not seek shelter when the sun rose; the sunlight did not seem to affect them.”

That was… that was not good.

“Was he injured?” Thorin questioned intently, his face just a shade away from ashen.

Coroní hesitated, just a bit, “He was hit in the head during the… I cannot call it a battle, but he seemed to be just fine the next day as he made the preparations to depart from his homeland. The children he travels with are unharmed and emerged from what was left of the Prince Consort’s burrow-house, so I believe that he sustained the injury defending them.”

“Why did you leave His Highness in the Old Forest?” Gimli asked, discontented. “There are many dangers to be found on the paths that weave through it.”

“Not on the Green Path,” Coroní explained, ruffling his feathers, “Which is the path he took. Also, I lost sight of him almost as soon as he entered the Old Forest – the magic of the Green Fae is strong and the Green Fae have ever protected Hobbits on Yavanna’s order.”

“Shall we alter our course for Rivendell, then?” Sigrid asked Thorin.

“Yes,” Thorin decided without more than a second’s deliberation. “We’ll intercept Bilbo there. Move on!”

The group resumed their travel, their pace quicker than before.

‘ _Hang on, **Gayadê** ,_’ Dwalin willed silently, urging his ram to move even faster. ‘ _Stay safe and stay alive. We’re coming._ ’

************************************************************************

**Translations (Khuzdûl)**

  * _Barufel_ – The Greatest of Families
  * _Baruk Bavonaz Dohyaraz Ra Gimlaz_ – Axe of the Crown, Anvil, and Stars; Alternatively, it is referred to as the King’s Divine Axe
  * _Adadel_ – Great Father; Father of All Fathers
  * _Khazâd_ – Dwarrow
  * _Juzrur gandi uh ana zu,_ _akhùthuzh_ _ul._ – I solemnly swear myself to you, for all eternity
  * _Nê_ _zirikh_ _izu uh agrîf,_ _gandi_ _zu âzyunguh, ra_ _yânj_ _i furkhuh ni furkhizu_ _akhùthuzh_. – If you would have me, I vow you my love, and fold my life into your life eternally
  * _Zatabalhi Ana Zu_ _–_ I belong with you
  * _Mâ Akhùthuzhur Zurkur Ze_ _–_ We will forever be as One
  * _Emùlhekh_ – Majesty
  * _Nadad_ – Brother
  * _Idad_ – Uncle
  * _Idadith_ – Little Uncle
  * _Murkhidad_ – Shield Uncle
  * _Umùrad’akar_ _–_ Soulmate, a Dwarrow(s) One
  * _Gayadê_ – My Joy
  * _Laslel_ – Rose of all Roses
  * _Ukradel_ – Greatest Heart of all Hearts
  * _Ghivashel_ – Beloved
  * _Lukhudel_ – Light of all Lights
  * _Khajmel_ – Gift of all Gifts
  * _Madtithbirzul_ – Little Golden Heart
  * _Mâzyung Zu_ _–_ We Love You
  * _Yothur_ _N_ _i_ _dif_ _Furkh_ _–_ More Than Life
  * _Zesulul_ _Abad_ _–_ Lonely Mountain
  * _Melhekhaz_ _Ughvashâ_ – The King’s Greatest Treasure



**Translations (Sindarin)**

  * _Gwathelion_ – Sister-Son, (Nephew)
  * _Ernil uin Glaur_ – Prince of Golden Light
  * _Amdir_ – Hope (The name of the bow that Elrond gives Bilbo)



**Translations (Greentongue – Based on Welsh)**

  * _Fy Alawon_ – My Melodies
  * _Mawr Coeden o Gwyrdd Fywyd_ – Great Tree of Green Life
  * _Gwyrdd Mam, Fi Daliai Rhain Plant Fel Fy_ _Feddais Efo Fy Galon Ac Fy Enaid Hyd-ddyn Yr Diwedd O Amser_ – Green Mother, I claim these children as my own with my heart and my soul until the end of time.
  * _Galon-harmonïau_ – Heart-harmony



**Funeral Song Translation**

_From the earth you sprang, green and new,_

_There was so much to try and so much to do._

_With laughter and love, you brought light,_

_Held hope even in the darkest of night._

_Ever too fast does the candle burn,_

_To the earth you must now return._

_But fear not, for the Green Mother awaits you,_

_In fields ever green, under skies ever blue._

_Never forgotten, ever loved you will be,_

_In a world of perfect harmony._

************************************************************************

**_The End_ **


	2. Episode Two – Melodies of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving in Rivendell brings physical safety, but as terrible truths come to light, it becomes clear that Bilbo is still in grave danger… and it is his heart that is in the most precarious position of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s what you guys have been waiting for – the reunion!!! I hope that it lives up to expectations; I’m rather pleased with it, at any rate. There’s no hopping back and forth between the past and the present in this episode, it’s all feels and dramatic rescues and more feels.

**_Episode Two – Melodies of the Heart_ **

_May 11 th, 3, Fourth Age – Eastern Edge of the Old Forest_

“Papa, look!” Isumbras cried excitedly. “We got you all the mushrooms!”

Bilbo turned to see his two eldest sons rushing toward him, the faunts’ shirts pulled out from their trousers and full of golden Chanterelles, meaty Porcinis, and honeycomb-shaped Morels. Their feet, hands, and trousers were caked with dirt but they were positively gleeful because of the edible treasures that they had managed to gather.

“We picked all of these that we could find,” Isengrim told Bilbo proudly. “But _we_ didn’t even touch one of the Deadly Galerinas.”

Thank Yavanna for that – one such incident had been bad enough. Hobbits loved mushrooms, but not all mushrooms were good for eating. Deadly Galerinas were one such variety that Hobbits steered clear of, because, though they would not actually _kill_ a Hobbit as they would Men, they induced vomiting, fever, nausea, and severe cramps. Two full days of travel had been lost when Melilot, in the split second that Bilbo’s back was turned to keep Frodo from falling off the boulder that he had decided to scale, had picked one and promptly popped it into her mouth, mistaking it for another type of mushroom that had grown in the woods of Buckland.

Meli, having heard Grim’s pointed statement, stuck her tongue out at her brother petulantly. She and her sisters, Bella Rose and Celandine, were filling a basket with inky blackberries – Bilbo had learned quickly that it was best to give his faunts something to do while the ponies rested; else they get themselves into mischief of the kind that would terrify parents across all of Arda. Frodo and Samwise had the all-important task of collecting as many of the strange, spherical lavender rocks that were littered around the trees as they could – Bilbo had no idea what they were, but the boys liked to roll them together and listen to them ‘clink’. Meriadoc and Peregrin were crawling around in circles, chasing the butterflies from one flower to another.

“I’m very glad,” Bilbo replied, grabbing three small, empty sacks from the wagon. “Bring them over here and separate them out into these. I’ll cook them up properly once we get to Rivendell.”

“Are we nearly there?” Meli asked.

“We’ve been traveling for ever so long, Papa,” Bella Rose added. “We only got to stay with the Faeries for three days.”

It had been incredibly lovely, resting in the Faerie Vale for a bit before moving on. The Lord of the Green Fae had healed Bilbo’s head, had blessed the fauntlings with True Health, which would prevent any ordinary sickness from ever touching them again, and had given Bilbo a tiny key, fit inside a rectangular locket, that would unlock any door with the assurance that Bilbo would need it in the future. Bilbo had found that last gesture to be rather ominous, actually, as thoughtful as the gift was.

“Just about an hour and a half more and we’ll arrive in the Valley,” Bilbo promised them. “And then we can sleep in real beds again.”

“I don’t wanna sleep,” Bras wrinkled his nose in distaste. “All we’ve done is sleep for so long. I wanna play with the Elves!”

“And learn how to use our bows!” Grim exclaimed eagerly.

“And take a real bath,” Cela chimed in. “Can the Elves fix my dresses, Papa? The bottom of this one’s all messed up and my others are coming apart.”

“Yes, I’m sure they will,” Bilbo assured.

Actually, the Lord Elrond would probably take one look at the haggard appearance of Bilbo and the faunts – Hobbit clothing was decidedly _not_ meant for travel through the Wildes, especially not the children’s clothing, and so their attire was quite ragged by that time – and order new, much better apparel made at once. Bilbo strongly suspected that it had only been Gandalf’s magic that kept Bilbo’s clothes from falling apart during the Quest, which would explain why Dori’d had to make Bilbo new things to wear once they arrived in Esgaroth, as the Wizard had been separated from the Company for some time by that point. Those clothes had lasted well and Bilbo would probably have still had them, had they not been infected by Mordor’s black magic.

Bilbo would have to divine a way to pay his uncle back, as Elrond was sure to refuse any gold that Bilbo offered to him.

“Speaking of baths, boys, you’re absolutely filthy. Go scrub your hands and feet off in the stream, but stay in the shallows,” Bilbo instructed Grim and Bras, passing them each a small chunk of soap. “Don’t you set one toe in the deeper water, understood?”

“Yes, Papa,” they chorused, scampering toward the little, lazy stream where the ponies and Bryony were drinking.

“The basket’s full, Papa,” Bella Rose announced, hefting the woven container up.

“So it is. Excellent work, sweetlings,” Bilbo praised. “You three go rinse off your hands too, they must be quite sticky by now, and then we’ll head out.”

Keeping one eye on the five older faunts, Bilbo packed the wagon back up and settled Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pip inside on the goose-down mattress, as well as about three dozen of the rocks that Frodo and Sam simply refused to part with – they would keep his little ones occupied, at least. He whistled sharply and the five ponies came trotting over to him eagerly, nudging his hands with their noses, looking for affectionate pats; Bryony, the stubborn goat, gave Bilbo a baleful look before slowly sauntering toward him as well. Bilbo hitched Lapis and Peridot to the wagon – the ponies were on a rotation to pull it – and tied the other three, Diamond, Emerald, and Ruby, and the goat to the side so that they would not wander as they traveled.

The rest of Bilbo’s little ones finished cleaning up and skipped back to the wagon, letting Bilbo lift them, one by one, through the open shutters and into the covered cart. There were lanterns in two of the corners which illuminated the space, allowing the faunts to see as they played with their toys or looked at the pictures in the books. Bilbo had firmly instructed them not to touch the lanterns and, so far, they had not once disobeyed him.

Once the fauntlings were all safely inside, Bilbo climbed up onto the driver’s seat and flicked the reins to get the ponies moving. He moved _Sting_ closer so that he could grasp it with ease should he need to. They were getting ready to leave the shelter of the Old Forest and while they were very near to Rivendell, anything could be lurking in the few miles between the forest’s edge and the Valley’s entrance.

“Papa,” Meli requested after a minute. “Tell us a story about your Dwarves.”

Bilbo would have much rather spoken about the Elves they were about to see, but he was hardly surprised by the request. Meli preferred to hear exciting stories about Bilbo and the only exciting stories Bilbo had been a part of, and that were suitable for little ears, featured the Company heavily. It was just that… well, over the month that they had been traveling to Rivendell, his fauntlings had begun to wonder why they were not heading to Erebor instead. They had, because of Bilbo’s Kindred Bonds, Kin Ties to the Dwarrow there – just as they had Kin Ties to Elrond, his children, and his ward – and, more importantly, they could sense that Bilbo had found his Melodies in two of them. The more they heard Bilbo speak of the Dwarves, the more that they realized how much Bilbo missed and loved them, and the more they wanted to go to Erebor.

And Bilbo _did_ miss his Dwarves. He missed Balin’s unremitting acumen and the guiding affection that had made Bilbo realize just how wonderful having an older brother could be. He missed how Dori had fussed over him, even because of the slightest things. He missed Ori and Bombur’s gentleness, their excitement to learn that Bilbo had talents which matched their own Crafts very well, and how ferocious they could be when defending kith and kin. He missed Bifur’s patience, the many hours that he had spent teaching Bilbo _Iglishmêk_ , and Bofur’s joviality, the jokes that had made Bilbo laugh as he had not since before the deaths of his parents. He missed Óin and Glóin’s gruff, but so real, fondness for him. He missed Nori’s slyness and absolute loyalty. He missed Fíli and Kíli, those brilliant, amazing boys who had decided that Bilbo was perfect from the very start, they who were so exuberant and so full of life, who had stood by him even when no one else would.

Thorin and Dwalin… Bilbo missed them most of all. He wished, oh how he wished, but… it was simply not going to happen.

So, Bilbo had evaded his faunts’ questioning as best as he could… he was not looking forward to explaining _why_ they could not go further East past Rivendell. He did not want to expose his fauntlings to the heartache that avarice and malice could cause, not yet.

“Far to the East, there is situated a great forest,” Bilbo began, and his fauntlings stilled in anticipation, for they all adored his stories. “In times long gone, it was hailed as the Greenwood, a place magical and full of never-ending light, but then came the Darkness and it transformed the forest into the Mirkwood and hardened the hearts of the Elves who call it home. It is not a place that any Hobbit would willingly choose to go into, but fate decreed that I and my companions would.”

************************************************************************

_May 11 th, 3, Fourth Age – Rivendell_

Rivendell was lovely, Thorin could admit, if only to himself, and he could understand why Bilbo enjoyed the Elven city so much, but he was utterly uninterested in sightseeing at that time. The same dark-haired Elf who had seen to the Company’s needs on their visit during the Quest led them into a large, airy space that served as a sort of study, where Lord Elrond and his daughter were waiting.

“I must admit that I am surprised to see you, Your Majesty,” the Lord Elrond admitted freely, not bothering with the usual pleasantries. “I did not believe that you would ever willingly travel to this Valley again.”

Thorin considered the Elven Lord before him and was not surprised to discover that the other appeared tense with worry, his fingers fluttering nervously at his sides – if Thorin did not have an Elven daughter-in-law, a rather beloved Elven daughter-in law, he might not noticed the almost imperceptible movements. Actually, the Elf looked as if he had not slept or eaten in some time, he was pale and thinner than Thorin remembered him being. Thorin could hardly hold the Elf’s agitation against him; Thorin, too, had been agonizing over Bilbo for weeks.

“Is he here?” Thorin questioned simply, choosing to forgo any kind of greeting. Behind him, he heard Balin sigh, just a bit, at Thorin’s impropriety.

Elrond closed his eyes briefly and then exhaled, “He is not.”

He did not bother to deny that Bilbo was alive and neither did he attempt to feign ignorance regarding whom Thorin was speaking of. He also did not look as if he were remorseful for the deception that he had helped perpetuate, either.

“He should have been here before now,” Dori fretted, wringing his hands. “Our Raven relayed to us that he was traveling upon the Green Path with a group of nine children and he should have come to no harm on such a road.”

“The Green Path? Then there is a chance that the Green Fae convinced him to rest with them for a few days,” Elrond stated, his words a breath of sheer relief. “They will have been horrified at the loss of their Mother’s sons and daughters and would have sought to care for the few that are left, especially if he was with children – the Fae adore children.”

“Can you not _See_ ‘im?” Dwalin spoke gruffly, his arms crossed over his chest, not nearly as relived as Elrond seemed to be. “I know that our Tauriel cannot, cause she had not the chance to grow close enough to ‘im, but yer ‘is uncle.”

“I know that he is alive, through his Kin Tie to me, but my _Sight_ is being blocked. The _Sight_ of all Elves is being blocked by Black Magic,” Elrond said, shaking his head. “We did not _See_ the fall of the Shire and nor can any of us _See_ Bilbo. I had feared him captured and have had scouts searching for him for weeks now, as does the Lady Galadriel. Most of what we know of the attack came at the expense of Gandalf’s good health. It is a comfort to know that he made it to the Green Path, that he is not a prisoner.”

“Tharkûn has been injured?” Kíli asked, his eyes wide in surprise. Thorin could hardly fault his nephew’s obvious astonishment – the Grey Istari had always seemed rather invulnerable to him as well.

“Badly, though he will heal,” Elrond confirmed. “He fell from one of the Great Eagles over a hundred feet before another caught him. The Eagle who dropped him perished.”

“No mortal weapon can bring down one of the Giant Eagles of Manwë Súlimo,” Fíli protested with a deep frown.

“The weapon was not mortal, but a spear of Black Fire,” Elrond said. “ _Mithrandir_ suffered burns across his chest, back, and shoulders as well as three broken ribs from the fall. He is to be sequestered in Lothlórien until he has healed.”

“At least he did not die before any could reach him,” Thorin commented pointedly.

“I agreed to that scheme because Bilbo needed the peace of his homeland to heal from the damage that the Ring wrought and the only way he could get such was if as many people as possible could be convinced that he had fallen,” the Lord Elrond revealed with a slight grimace, but there was no note of apology in his voice. “My nephew’s health and happiness will always come before earning the goodwill of foreign kings, always.” Damn, him, Thorin could hardly argue against _that_. “I knew that the deception could never be permanent – one way or another, the truth would have come to light.” He nodded toward Tauriel, apparently having perceived how the Company had come to know the truth. “We… we thought we were prepared for that to happen. But nothing could have prepared us for this.”

“How did the Orcs get into the Shire?” Thorin demanded.

“They are not Orcs, not truly,” Elrond answered tiredly. “They are the Urak-Hai, a crossbreed of Orc and Goblin that is capable of moving in daylight. They were created by… by a very powerful being raping the earth with the darkest of magics. Even now, the land around Isengard is screaming in agony, just as the earth of the Shire weeps over the loss of its people.”

“Isengard,” Balin repeated slowly. “You don’t mean… _Saruman_? Saruman created the foul beasts?”

“The White Wizard has betrayed the White Council,” Elrond confirmed with regret. “Though we did not know it at the time, he had forged an alliance with Sauron and was most displeased by the Dark Lord’s death. In retrospect, Saruman’s unyielding insistence that Bilbo go with him to Isengard in the aftermath of Mount Doom’s erupting was suspicious, but the rest of us simply could not have imagined…” Elrond trailed off with a deep sigh. “And now the gentlest and purest of the Valar’s children has paid the ultimate price for our ignorance.”

“But how did they get into the Shire?” Dwalin insisted on knowing. “Even if they are not Orcs, they are still Dark Creatures and should have been repelled by the Green Magic as long as the Baggins line existed.”

“Aye,” Bofur agreed. “Bilbo told all of us this.”

“The night that the Shire fell, there was a very rare kind of new moon that Elves call _Thaurmôr_ ,” Elrond told them. “It gave Saruman the strength to create a window in the Shire’s shielding with Black Magic, a window that five hundred of his Urak-Hai could invade through. It lasted not more than four hours… but that was all the time that the Urak-Hai needed to complete the task their master had given them. In just four short hours, they slaughtered over fifteen thousand Hobbits.”

With limited Green Magic at their disposal and next to no fighting ability, the Hobbits would not have stood a chance against a few dozen Urak-Hai. That Bilbo had survived the genocide of his people was a miracle beyond reckoning, Thorin realized. Divine intervention was the only explanation.

“Do you mean to take Bilbo back with you to Erebor?” the Lady Arwen questioned urgently and unexpectedly, her voice comparable to the chiming of silver bells in the wind.

It was the first time that Thorin had heard Bilbo’s only younger Elven cousin say a single word. Though he had seen glimpses of her during his first visit to Rivendell, mostly at the side of the Lord Elrond’s ward, Estel, as they chatted with Bilbo in Rivendell’s gardens, she had avoided the strangers in her father’s house diligently. Bilbo had later told them that Arwen was very young for an Elf, one of the youngest – only fifty and just recently come of age, if Thorin’s calculations were correct – and was quite shy of those whom she did not know well, partly because she had lost her mother at only seven years of age. Evidently, her fear for Bilbo had overcome her shyness and induced her to speak.

“That was our hope, that we could beg his forgiveness and convince him to return to the Mountain,” Thorin answered carefully, aware that the Elves of Rivendell might object quite strenuously to this plan.

They had planned to spend the better part of an entire year doing so, too, if Bilbo had needed the time in order to trust his estranged husbands again. Though they were already married, Thorin and Dwalin had planned to court their Hobbit properly, as they should have done before.

“Bilbo must go with you,” Arwen declared, gazing intently at Thorin. “His soul will have been severely wounded by the abrupt loss of so many of his Kin Ties; this could kill him.”

Thorin felt his blood chill in his veins, “Kill him?”

“Hobbits need Kin Ties or Kindred Bonds to survive,” Elrond explained. “In normal circumstance, they would need proximity to their Kin or Kindred, touch, to thrive but _could_ manage distance for some time, if needed. But the loss of so many relatives at once will have caused great spiritual damage to Bilbo and he will need continual closeness to as many of his family members as possible, for many years to come, in order to keep his soul from fading away. He could, theoretically, stay here, in Rivendell, as the Kin Ties he has to me, my children, and Estel would sustain his life, but this would not heal the damage already done. He would be, effectively, a prisoner, unable to ever leave the Valley – no matter how much time went by.”

“Being with us would heal him?” Ori inquired politely, because Ori was quite incapable of being rude to anyone, even Elves.

“You are his Kindred, the bonds he forged with you were bonds of _choice_ , made because he loved you, and such bonds are more powerful than those we are born with,” Elrond illuminated. “The bond I shared with his mother, my sister, was stronger than that I have with him, even though I love him no less than I still love her.”

“More importantly,” Arwen added. “Your King and his Prince Consort are his Melodies, his Bonds of Song, and he needs them to be happy.”

“As for the children,” Lord Elrond continued. “They need to remain with Bilbo.”

“Of course,” Thorin acquiesced, “I will not separate him from what remains of his people.”

“You had better not,” Lord Elrond remarked, “Considering the incontrovertible fact that they will die should you do so. Fauntlings require Nurture Bonds to live, deep connections to at least one adult Hobbit whom they see as their parent. If Bilbo is traveling with only children then he must have formed such bonds with them instinctually. It is, the word in Westron is ‘adoption’, but it is more profound than that. Bilbo wrote to tell us that he had taken in his cousins’ faunts when their parents drowned, Bella Rose and Frodo Baggins, and they will almost certainly account for two of the children whom your Raven spotted. As for the others, I imagine that they must have been the children of relatives or close friends.”

“If my Prince Consort has claimed the children as his own, then they shall be henceforth known as Princes and Princesses of Erebor,” Thorin proclaimed firmly.

Elrond almost looked as if he approved, “Hobbits living in a mountain will need certain amenities to thrive.”

“Then they shall have them, every single one,” Thorin swore.

“And more,” Dwalin promised.

The dark-haired Elf who had received them returned then, looking harried, “My Lord, your nephew has been spotted by our Silverbirds exiting the Old Forest. They have also noticed a small band of Urak-Hai marching from the north that will intercept the Ringbearer before he can get here.”

Thorin stiffened in alarm.

“Not if we intercept him first,” Elrond returned immediately. “Have as many of the Silvergreen Archers as you can prepared to ride out in ten minutes, Lindir.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“We’re coming too,” Thorin asserted, with no room for argument in his tone. He would not wait here while foul creatures bore down upon his husband, he could not.

“Yes, I rather thought that you might,” Elrond returned wryly. “Let us go, then, your husband needs his Dwarves.”

************************************************************************

_May 11 th, 3, Fourth Age – Dalath Celevon_

“What are those flowers called, Papa?” Bella Rose asked, her head resting on his shoulder, one arm around him and the other pointing at the blooms that were blossoming all around in the plain that they were driving through.

“They are called Silver Bells, sweetling,” Bilbo conveyed. “They can ease muscle soreness and tension headaches if you bathe in water infused with them or drink tea brewed from their petals. They also taste rather nice when baked into cakes or candied with honey glaze.”

“Can we stop and pick some?” Cela petitioned, “I love candied petals.”

They were only about thirty minutes away from Rivendell’s borders and the attack that Bilbo had feared might come had not. Still, though, he was uneasy with the idea of dallying – there was danger to his faunts lurking somewhere, Bilbo had been sensing it since before they departed the Shire, and he would be much happier once his little ones were safe in the Valley, behind the Lord Elrond’s protective magics.

“Let’s get to Rivendell first and maybe in a few days we can come back out here and gather some,” Bilbo compromised. “These plains are not technically part of Rivendell, but it would still be polite to ask the Lord Elrond if picking the Silver Bells is allowed.”

It was best to inculcate good manners into fauntlings as soon as possible. Valar forbid that his children ever behave like his Dwarrows routinely did – though there was little chance of such conduct ever being witnessed by little eyes in the Valley of Imladris, unless, of course, Glorfindel stopped by for a visit. Apparently, dieing and being sent back to Arda by Manwë was cause enough to relinquish one’s sense of decorum almost entirely. If there ever was an Elf whom all Dwarves would like, it was Glorfindel.

“I’m so excited,” Bras declared, bouncing on the mattress. “Will there be cake in Rivendell?”

Bilbo chuckled lightly, “I’m sure there will be. My cousin, Arwen, makes the most delectable sponge cakes with strawberry cream and my uncle’s right hand, Lindir, can prepare the most delectable chilled strawberry and blueberry soups, which are perfect for Tea on hot summer days.”

“Oh, goodie,” Grim cheered. “I love berry soups. They’re the best kinds of soup.”

Well, Bilbo was rather partial to heartier stews himself, like the cheesy potato and venison soup his mother had liked to prepare on cold nights or Bombur’s creamy fish chowder, but he could understand his son’s bias for the sweeter soups. Bilbo’d had quite a sweet tooth himself as a fauntling.

“Can you make soup out of blackberries?” Meli questioned, nibbling on one of the last pieces of Lembas Bread.

“My mother taught me how to make sweet blackberry soup paired with buttermilk custards,” Bilbo replied.

It was one of his best Tea – the meal, not the beverage – recipes, actually, his fourth best, to be precise. His best Tea recipe was lemon blueberry cake with blueberry cream, followed by his lemon lavender buttermilk scones and his rose petal tea cakes. Before he had made his intention to remain a bachelor known, because Bagginses married for love and Bilbo had believed, back then, that he was simply not capable of loving anyone as deeply as his parents had loved one another, Bilbo had received upwards of a dozen marriage proposals based on his skill in the kitchen alone.

Other applications for his hand had been rooted in the talents that he had developed at the knees of both of his parents – weaving had also been taught to him by Belladonna, Bungo had seen to it that Bilbo knew how to paint and sing, and they both had imparted everything that they knew about gardening and green life to him. Combined with the fact that Bilbo had been the single richest gentlehobbit in Hobbiton, well, needless to say, there had been an abundance of bonding requests.

“That sounds so yummy,” Meli said. “Can we make that with the berries we picked, Papa?”

“Certainly, dear heart,” Bilbo answered. “And some pies and tarts too.”

“Will your uncle teach us Elf language?” Grim spoke, “Cause I think I would like to know Elf language, if I’m to be an Elf archer.”

“The Elven languages are called Sindarin and Quenya and I’m sure that my uncle will be happy to see to it that you study them, I started learning both when I was your age, Grim,” Bilbo responded. “And you’ll be _Hobbit_ archers, my dear.”

He could not ever let them forget that, first and foremost, they were Hobbits and Yavanna’s children. All that Bilbo’s parents had taught him, he would teach his fauntlings too.

“Can we learn Dwarf language too?” Bella Rose chimed in.

“I… I’m afraid that only a Dwarf would be able to teach you _Khuzdûl_ and _Iglishmêk_ ,” Bilbo managed to say. “And there shan’t be any Dwarrow in Rivendell.”

“Well, then let’s go to Erebor, after we see your uncle and we learn Elfish,” Bella Rose suggested innocently. “So we can meet your Dwarf-kin, Papa, and learn how to speak like Dwarves.”

“Sweetling, I’m sorry, but that’s just not possible-” Bilbo was cut off by the sound of Elven war horns ringing out only a short distance away. “Oh, _no_.”

A flash of gold made Bilbo look North, and he saw his uncle, the Lord Elrond in full armor, cutting down one of the Orcish creatures, just like those that had invaded the Shire, on top of a nearby hill with extreme prejudice. More Elves appeared from over the hill, forming a boundary between Bilbo and what, he assumed, had to be more of the foul beasts.

Bilbo pulled the wagon to a halt, the ponies whinnying unhappily, and turned to the faunts, “Stay in here and keep quiet, no matter what you hear, my dear ones.”

He closed the shutters of the wagon firmly and took up _Amdir_ , notching an arrow into the bow. From overhead came black, flying monsters carrying more of the Orcish creatures on their backs. Bilbo climbed to the top of the wagon and let the arrow fly at one of them, piercing the monster in its neck and sending it to plunge down into the field of flowers, killing the creature riding upon it too as it impacted with the earth. More of the flying monsters made it past the Elven archers and with them came the strange Orcs, several of whom jumped down off of their mounts quite close to the wagon. Bilbo sent another arrow through the eye of one of them, the projectile stabbing through to its brain and killing it before being recalled into Bilbo’s quiver via Elven magic.

A third creature lunged at Bilbo menacingly – and Bilbo had no time to use either his bow or to draw _Sting_ out from her sheath – before collapsing to the ground, a Dwarven axe embedded in its back. An axe he recognized, actually, because Dwalin went nowhere without both Grasper and Keeper strapped to his back.

To Bilbo’s shock, he looked up to see that the whole of the Company, astride rams, and Tauriel, and Sigrid were rushing furiously toward him and the creatures that surrounded him, weapons at the ready. And behind them was a whole host of Dwarven soldiers bearing Erebor’s crest on their breastplates, intent upon bearing down on the Orcish creatures, who looked as caught off-guard as Bilbo felt. What were Dwarves, especially Bilbo’s Dwarves, doing _here_?

Bilbo let loose another arrow, striking through a white-handprint marked throat, the stain making for a very convenient target. By the Stars of Varda Elbereth, Thorin and Dwalin were racing to reach him and they looked so _angry_.

Well, what had Bilbo expected? For them to be happy to discover him alive, to learn that he had convinced the White Council to lie to them? Of course they would be livid to have been so deceived, to have been fooled by the Grey Wizard himself. They were probably only coming to his aide now because their honor demanded it of them. As far as they were concerned, Bilbo had betrayed them, had abandoned them – it should not have hurt so much to see them so irate with him, but it did.

The Dwarves and the Orcish creatures met, steel clashing with iron. Bilbo found himself forced to hold back his arrows, because he would not risk hitting one of Kindred accidentally. He could not draw _Sting_ and join the fray, either, because there was simply no way that he could leave his faunts unprotected in the wagon.

Kíli broke from the fight and steered his ram over to Bilbo, his countenance full of the joy that Bilbo would have liked to have seen from his husbands, “Hullo, Mister Boggins!”

“Kíli, down!” Bilbo screamed as one of the strange Orc rushed the lad with the intent of lopping his head off. Kíli barely dodged the blade and was only saved from a second swipe by Tauriel’s quick work with her bow. Panic continued to course through Bilbo’s veins – that had been much too close.

The rest of the Orcish creatures and the flying monsters were dispatched quickly by the Dwarves and Elves, not a single one escaping. Bilbo leapt down from the wagon and marched straight over to Kíli in an alarm-fueled huff.

“What in the Green Lady’s name did you think you were doing!” Bilbo shouted at the younger of his Dwarven nephews, his heart still hammering in his chest. “You don’t look away from your opponent in the heat of the battle, you don’t allow yourself to get distracted. Of all the foolish, reckless things to do! You could have been killed, Kíli!”

“Sorry,” Kíli replied, grinning wildly at him and not looking or sounding very repentant at all.

“Papa, why are you shouting?” Bras asked.

Bilbo whirled around to see that Bras, Grim, and Meli had exited the wagon completely, while Bella Rose and Cela were hanging out of the window, their eyes lit up with curiosity.

“I told you to stay _in the wagon_ ,” Bilbo cried in exasperation and threw his hands up in the air, his patience a mere sliver at that point.

“But, the wagon’s boring,” Meli rejoined, rocking back and forth on her feet. “Everything interesting is out here.”

“Are those Orcs?” Grim asked, pointing to the felled bodies.

“No, they’re Urak-Hai,” Ori told them helpfully. “Orcs are generally smaller and not quite as intelligent.”

Bilbo contemplated tearing his hair out in frustration but settled for releasing a deep, long-suffering sigh instead.

“Let’s get you and your fauntlings to Rivendell,” Bilbo’s uncle approached him and laid a consoling hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Tea and rest await you there. You’re all safe now.”

Bilbo let his uncle’s steady calm settle his own nerves and he nodded sharply, allowing Elrond to take control, “Fauntlings, get back in the wagon.”

“But what are those?” Meli inquired, gazing intently at the rams. “Are they like goats?”

“They’re rams,” Balin explained to her. “They live in mountains, primarily.”

“Can we ride on the rams?” Bras asked, his eyes eagerly tracking the animals that were not native to the lands of the Shire and therefore exotic enough to be thrilling to the faunt.

Bilbo opened his mouth to say that, no, they most certainly could not ride on the rams after they had so blatantly disobeyed him, but Fíli spoke up first, “Course, you can, _Idadinùdoy_.”

Bilbo decided that his sanity probably could not handle any temper tantrums at that moment – unlike Bella Rose, Frodo, and Sam, his other faunts were quite capable of throwing spectacular tantrums if they did not get their way – and let it go, “Fine.”

Celandine and Bella Rose scrambled out of the wagon, eager to ride on the rams too. Bilbo barely managed to climb back up into the driver’s seat to stop Frodo and Sam from doing the same, “No sirs, you’re too little to be riding on anything.” The boys pouted but sat back with Merry and Pippin, who looked rather frightened still. Bilbo pulled his two littlest into his lap, where they clung to him for comfort, “There now, dear ones, it’s alright.”

“We can lash the boys to us, to provide more stability, _Nadadith_ ,” Dori offered carefully, his tone gentle, probably because he could sense that Bilbo was very close to throwing a tantrum himself, “If the little ones truly wish to ride on the rams with us.”

Bilbo wondered if Dori even realized that he was eyeing Bilbo’s frayed clothing with something akin to horror.

Frodo tugged at Bilbo’s collar and said insistently, “Rams, Papa.”

“Yes, alright, you may ride the rams,” Bilbo conceded and Frodo and Sam eagerly hopped from the wagon into Dori and Balin’s arms. If the two had to ride with anyone, Bilbo would have picked the two most reasonable of his Dwarven brothers.

This still left him with a problem, because Bilbo now had his arms full of trembling faunts and could hardly drive the wagon in such a state. Bofur and Nori solved this dilemma for him, climbing up onto the seat on either side of him, sandwiching him between them protectively – evidently they were still worried about more Urak-Hai approaching, no matter what Elrond had said – as Nori took up the reins.

Bras and Grim were riding with Fíli and Kíli, Bella Rose with Ori on his black-coated ram, Cela was with Glóin, and Meli sat in front of Bifur, swinging her legs excitedly. Óin and Thorin flanked those riding with the faunts on the left, while Bombur and Dwalin took up parallel positions on the right. The rest of the Dwarves and Elves surrounded them and the wagon, with Elrond leading the pack of them – which surprised Bilbo immensely because he never thought that the day would come when Thorin would willingly allow an Elf to lead him anywhere.

As they traveled, Thorin and Dwalin cast furtive looks back and forth to each other repeatedly, but they never once looked back at Bilbo. Despite himself, Bilbo felt his heart sink and he pulled Merry and Pippin close, burying his face in their ash blonde and strawberry curls and squeezing his eyes shut tightly to prevent tears from escaping them.

“ _Nadad_ ,” Bofur spoke softly, causing Bilbo to look up at him blearily. His normally jovial brother looked terribly serious then. “I’m so sorry, for everything. We can’t change the past, but we can protect you now, now and in the future, you and the little ones.”

“We can and will,” Nori swore. “You can rest in the wagon, if you want. You look terrible.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” Bilbo returned, not sure if he was referring to their offer of protection or Nori’s suggestion that he take a nap. He wanted, so very badly, to believe that his Dwarves wanted him again, but… well, he simply could not.

Eventually, Merry gained the courage to peek out at Bofur and was utterly delighted by the silly faces that the Dwarf made for him, so much so that it drew Pippin’s interest too and both of them were swiftly giggling in delight, the terror of earlier forgotten. They arrived in the Valley in what seemed to Bilbo like hardly any time at all, and it was probably because being pressed close to two of his Kindred for the first time in _years_ was absolutely wonderful. It was going to hurt so badly to lose them again.

They crossed over the bridge, which Bilbo was going to have to keep the fauntlings well away from – why did Elves and Dwarves think it was appropriate to build elevated walkways without railings – and approached the entrance to Elrond’s manor, where Arwen and Lindir were waiting for them. Bilbo breathed out a sigh of relief and felt much of his anxiety trickle away.

They were _safe_.

Bilbo handed Merry over to Lindir and Pippin to Arwen, when the Elves reached for the faunts, and then hopped down off the wagon after Nori. He took three steps forward toward the doors, swayed without warning, and then promptly lost consciousness.

************************************************************************

_May 12 th, 3, Fourth Age – Rivendell_

Bilbo woke to discover a state of affairs that left him feeling rather bewildered. The Company was slumbering on the floor in piles all around the soft bed that he was resting on, except for Thorin and Dwalin, who were slumped against the bed on their knees and were either gripping Bilbo’s hand or had an arm swung over his waist protectively. Judging by the low level of natural light in the airy bedroom, which he belatedly recognized as his, it was just after dawn.

The doors to the bedroom opened silently and Arwen swept in to smile gently at him, “Good morn, _Gwedeir_.” Bilbo’s cousin carefully stepped over and around the Dwarves, “ _Ada_ offered them all rooms of their own, but I think, perhaps, you frightened them too badly when you collapsed yesterday afternoon. They know that you need closeness to them to heal and so they insisted upon sleeping here last night. Your dear fauntlings are in the room next door – they were a bit scared when you fainted, but _Ada_ managed to convince them that you were just very sleepy from traveling.”

Bilbo blinked at her in confusion, “I don’t understand.”

Bilbo’s words, soft though they were, caused Dwalin to stir at his side. The Dwarf groggily lifted his head and then his eyes widened when he realized that Bilbo was alert.

“Bilbo!” he exclaimed in his deep, rumbling voice, loudly enough to wake everyone else up too. “Thank Mahal, we were so worried!”

Arwen covered her smile with her hand, mirth and a ‘ _see, what did I tell you_ ’ dancing in her eyes.

“You… were?” Bilbo managed to say. “But… you were angry with me.”

Thorin flinched and Dwalin’s gaze fell.

“I’m hungry,” Fíli declared loudly then. “Who else is hungry? Everyone? Great, let’s all go find breakfast somewhere that’s decidedly _not here_.”

And then he began to physically push as many of the others as he could reach out of the bedroom. The rest of the Company apparently cottoned on to what he was trying to do as their faces lit with understanding and they began to file out willingly, until only Arwen was left in the room with Bilbo and his husbands. Bilbo’s Elven cousin sent both Thorin and Dwalin severe looks – and Bilbo had not realized that Arwen was capable of being stern – before flowing gracefully back out into the hall and shutting the doors firmly behind her, before Bilbo could beg her to stay.

“Are _you_ hungry?” Dwalin pressed, his words heavy with worry. “Cause, this can wait a few minutes more so that you can eat… or Thorin and I can talk _while_ you eat.”

“No, no, I’m fine, for now,” Bilbo responded hesitantly, less due to his lack of hunger, because he was fairly ravenous, truth be told, and more due to the fact that he knew with utter certainty that if he ate anything right then, he would likely throw it back up because of nerves. More bemused and, well, _afraid_ than anything, Bilbo continued diffidently, “I would rather like to be dressed, though.”

He was in a nightshirt and underwear, and someone had obviously bathed him while he had been sleeping because he felt cleaner than he had in a month, but he would much prefer to be in actual clothes. He felt… exposed like this.

Dwarves had very little shame when it came to their bodies, moving about in various states of dress, undress, or full-blown nudity as they pleased. Bilbo had grown used to this during the Quest, had even come to understand it – Dwarrow simply saw no reason to be ashamed of their most natural state – but he was a Baggins, and Bagginses, like all gentlehobbits, were raised to find comfort in propriety. Gentlehobbits were, had been, of the opinion that no one but one’s spouse or spouse had any business seeing one unclothed.

The Company had been insulted by Bilbo’s refusal to bathe or undress in their presence in the beginning, thinking that he thought himself better than them. One too many snide comments had resulted in Bilbo snapping at Glóin, who had been unfortunate enough to make the remark under his breath that sparked Bilbo’s ire, that he was a Baggins and Bagginses married for love, gave themselves only to their loves, thank you very much, as per the traditions of his people and was Bilbo going around insulting Mahal’s children by insisting that they behave like Hobbits, no, he was not, so Glóin could shut it. It was at this point, of course, that the Company had come to the realization that Bilbo had never had intercourse in his life – which Fíli and Kíli had found utterly tragic – and things had eased somewhat, because saving oneself for marriage was, apparently, a very honorable thing to do, even if very few Dwarrow did so.

“The Lord Elrond has provided clothing for you,” Thorin related, his tone betraying nothing, as Bilbo slipped out of the bed, his head spinning a bit still. “It’s waiting for you in the bathroom.”

Well, Thorin and Dwalin did not sound livid, at least, but, at the same time, they _certainly_ did not look or sound happy either.

Bilbo scurried into the bathroom, where clothing was, indeed, waiting for him. Fashioned of silk in pale silver and a purple so light that it only just could be called purple at all, the clothing would mark him as the Lord Elrond’s kin – the brocade of leaves and vines and Silverbirds was not merely pretty decoration but his uncle’s beatific crest, the symbol of his Grace, repeated over and over across the fabric of the overcoat and stamped across the heart of Bilbo’s tunic. Only close relatives could wear the crest of an Elf.

Beautiful though they were, the clearly Elven-style attire still made him wince internally – his husbands would not like seeing him dressed in such garb; they had been sullen and cantankerous when Bilbo had worn such, to honor his uncle and his cousins in their home, on their first visit to Rivendell. That was why he had left the sturdier, Elfish clothes behind when the Company had departed from the Valley. But, there was nothing for it, so on the clothes would go.

It did not take long for Bilbo to dress, though he purposely took his time pulling on the thick silk clothing and then brushing his wild curls in an attempt to tame them. He felt… slightly better, to be wearing proper attire once more, almost as if he had pulled on a kind of armor. Still, he would have preferred to hide in the bathroom for the remainder of his life, at that point, or at least until Thorin and Dwalin had grown fed up with waiting for him and left.

‘ _Get a grip, Bilbo Baggins,_ ’ Bilbo chided himself fiercely. ‘ _You walked through the Mordor and riddled with the last of the Great Drakes. You can face your husbands now, no matter what they wish to say._ ’

Though dubious regarding his own conviction, Bilbo took a deep breath and then exited the bathroom, stepping out toward Thorin and Dwalin timorously, halting when he was only a few short feet away. He crossed his arms over his chest and gripped his own coat-sleeves to hide the fact that his hands were trembling.

“You… you said that you wanted to talk?” Bilbo stammered, when neither of his Dwarves showed any inclination of speaking. Apparently, they seemed utterly content to just stare at Bilbo with an intensity that made him shiver, as if they were parched and could only be satisfied by drinking in the sight of him. Bilbo was not sure what to make of the behavior.

They regained themselves and it was Dwalin who marveled, “Seein’ you standin’ there, hearin’ yer voice – ‘tis a miracle, Bilbo. We’ve known fer months that you were alive, but…”

“How did you know?” Bilbo inquired.

“Tauriel and Kíli were wed,” Dwalin explained.

Oh, _oh_. Bilbo was an idiot of the highest order. It was not that he had forgotten that Elves, like Hobbits, created bonds with their spouses, family members, and very close friends… it was just that he had, in fact, forgotten. Or maybe deliberately ignored this knowledge, which was, perhaps, worse.

“So… you decided to leave Erebor to… why _did_ you leave Erebor?” Bilbo asked.

“To beg for your forgiveness,” Thorin declared, as he and Dwalin sunk to their knees as if they were a single entity, “And to beg you to consent to come back to the Mountain.”

Bilbo stared, quite unable to speak then even if his life had depended on it.

“Bilbo,” Thorin forged on. “When we woke from our madness and realized what we had done to you… there are not words to describe how much we despised ourselves. We had already made plans to come for you when Gandalf arrived in Erebor… when he told us that you were dead… we might as well have been dead too. Because we knew, knew that we only had ourselves to blame for losing you. You deserved none of the violence that we meted out, nor were the cruel words that we spoke to you, that day on the ramparts and after the Battle, warranted. We were such fools.”

“We should’ve fought harder against the gold, should’ve been stronger,” Dwalin said. “You were _right_ , Bilbo, so very right to act as you did and we should’ve listened to our hearts instead of the whisperin’s of the treasure. We’re sorry, we’re so, so sorry, for everythin’. We… we betrayed you and hurt you and there may be nothin’ that can ever make up fer what we did, but we are beggin’ you to give us the chance to try.”

As he stood, gaping, he noticed – and how in the seven hells had he not noticed before that moment – that Thorin and Dwalin still wore the half of their marriage beads that symbolized _him_ in their hair. His heart swelled in his chest even as it wept.

Slowly and with such a myriad of powerful emotions churning inside of him like a hurricane that he could hardly identify one out of the lot of them, Bilbo walked over to his husbands and knelt down to be at their level, his knees sinking into the thick woolen carpet that lined the floor. There were so many things that he could have said, could have yelled even, and since his mind was reeling, he settled for allowing his heart to speak for him.

“I love you. There is nothing in all of Arda or Valinor that is powerful enough to destroy my love for you both, but… you allowed gold to matter more to you than me, your husband,” Bilbo’s voice broke and he had to swallow. “You stopped being the Dwarrow that I love and became… the words you spoke, the gleam in your eyes… they were so reminiscent of the Dragon that, during those days before the Battle, I considered the possibility more than once that Smaug had infected you from beyond the grave! Despite that, when Gandalf warned me to not return to the Mountain after I gave the Arkenstone to Bard, I insisted that I would never have cause to fear you, was adamant that the faith I had in you was not misplaced – you proved me wrong on both counts.”

Thorin screwed his eyes shut almost involuntarily, his countenance stricken with misery, and Dwalin balked, his indigo eyes cast down in ignominy. Despite the anger, despite the fear, Bilbo wanted to hold them, wanted to protect them even from his own tumultuous feelings. But he could not, because they had to hear this, they had to know what their actions had wrought in him, if there was any chance of their Heart-harmony healing, they _had_ to know.

“I want, more than anything, to go with you to Erebor and pretend that none of that ever happened,” Bilbo whispered, and his husbands’ gazes returned to him as tears spilled over the rims of his eyes and began to trail down his cheeks, “But I’m _terrified_. I couldn’t compete with the gold before and if you fall under its thrall again… I won’t survive being cast away a second time. I barely survived it the first time; I wouldn’t have if Gandalf had not been there to stop me.”

“Stop you from what?” Dwalin asked, his voice thick with his own choked back tears. “ _Gayadê_ , what did you try to do?”

“I thought that you weren’t coming back,” Bilbo admitted, not looking at either of his husbands. “I found Belladonna growing wild and tried to ingest it. Gandalf caught me and put a stop to it – he was quite furious about it, actually.”

“Deadly Nightshade,” Thorin’s voice was dull. “Oh, Bilbo.”

“I threw a bit of a tantrum after that,” Bilbo told them softly, wryly, “That’s how we figured out what the Ring truly was – I pitched it into a fire in a pique.”

“When you destroyed the Ring and killed Sauron,” Thorin relayed, “The Arkenstone lost all of its dark power.”

“We realized that we couldn’t remember anythin’ bout the Dwarf who supposedly found the stone for Thrór and, fer the first time, began to question why,” Dwalin added. “The stone exacerbated the weakness fer gold in the line of Durin, drove Thrór utterly mad, and it’s what brought Smaug to Erebor in the first place.”

“It didn’t affect Fíli or Kíli, because they clung to Sigrid and Tauriel and were, thus, protected,” Bilbo stated, his words infused with pain. “Despite everything, you didn’t really want me.”

“ _No_ ,” Thorin’s tone was absolute. “ _Ghivashel_ , that is not true. We… we were arrogant and foolish. When we first laid eyes on you, when we realized what you were to us, our first instinct was not to rejoice but to question the will of Mahal because you were not a Dwarf, as we had expected you to be. Even still, when you took insult to the things we said and did, we were angry with you instead of ourselves, as we should have been. Later, when peace settled between us, we sought to change you, to alter you to fit Dwarven standards instead of cherishing you for the Hobbit that you are, as we ought to have. We spurned your customs and beliefs and took light of what you needed as one of Yavanna’s children. Mahal punished us for that… a punishment that you bore the brunt of.”

“Fíli and Kíli never once denied their Ones or wished for ‘em to be anythin’ but who they are,” Dwalin spoke. “Prejudice and unwarranted pride are foreign to our nephews; their hearts are too pure for such things.”

“We destroyed the Arkenstone,” Thorin revealed, causing Bilbo to start in shock. Cautiously, tenderly, Thorin reached out to cup the right side of Bilbo’s face and wipe away the tears there, and Bilbo let him. “It’s gone forevermore, _Lukhudel_ , and in the very moment that you destroyed the Ring, the madness faded, the shroud over our minds and hearts was torn away. You freed us, you freed all of Erebor, and I swear to you that neither of us has felt any kind of pull toward gold or gems since that day. Our minds are our own and we shall die before forsaking you again, _Madtithbirzul_. If time is what you need to trust us again, then, _please_ , give us that time. Come home to Erebor and let us prove to you that you have nothing to fear, not from us, not ever again.”

“ _Mâzyung Zu_ ,” Dwalin gently lifted Bilbo’s left hand and kissed it.

“The Orcish creatures, the Urak-Hai, they’re after me,” Bilbo informed them, because he had to. “You’ll be putting Erebor at risk if you bring me back with you.”

“Erebor would be at risk either way,” Dwalin countered, almost impetuously. “At any rate, you and the little ones will be safer in the Mountain, and it’s flanked by Dale, which provides still greater protection.”

“Okay,” Bilbo agreed softly. “Okay.”

Thorin and Dwalin slumped slightly in relief, such joy evident in their faces that it made Bilbo’s soul sing despite its grievous wounds. In that instant, all Bilbo wanted was for his Dwarves to wrap him up in their arms and shield him from the devastation that he had been running from for the past month. In a few minutes, they would have to leave the bedroom and face the others, Bilbo would have to put on a cheerful face and be a father, because his faunts would need him to, but right then… Bilbo just wanted to be held.

He was not sure how to ask them, not after all that had transpired between them, but, in the end, he did not have to. Bilbo was barely leaning forward toward them before he found himself tucked between them, his husbands peppering his face and hair with kisses as they cradled him. Between one breath and the next, Bilbo found himself weeping uncontrollably into Dwalin’s shoulder, clinging with one hand to the soft tunic that Dwalin was wearing while Bilbo’s other hand gripped one of Thorin’s tightly to his chest.

To his astonishment, they were sobbing too, clutching him as if they feared that he would vanish at any moment.

“The Shire’s gone, _they’re_ gone and it’s my fault,” Bilbo confessed after a few minutes. “They slaughtered my people to get to _me_ , to take me to their master. I as good as killed my entire race.”

“T’was not your fault,” Dwalin opposed at once, “You are not to be held accountable fer the malice of other people, _Laslel_.”

“Place the blame where it belongs, at Saruman’s feet,” Thorin told him.

Bilbo felt himself pale dramatically and he leaned back to look at their faces, his voice devoid of emotion, “Saruman? The White Wizard? He did this?”

A strange rage, hot and bright, swelled up inside of his heart and threatened to consume him utterly and without warning. For one of the Istari to fall to darkness was unprecedented – for they were Maiar chosen to take the form of Wizards because of their fierce and unyielding love and loyalty to the Valar – and an abhorrence. A betrayal of this kind was as horrifying as the treason Sauron had committed when he pledged his allegiance to Morgoth, was nearly as devastating as Melkor’s abandoning of the rest of the Ainur. And then for Saruman to all but wipe out one of the Valar’s children… such an atrocity had never before been perpetrated in all of Arda’s history.

Thorin and Dwalin exchanged brief glances that were chock full of concern, far more perceptive than Bilbo wanted them to be. His Dwarven lumps were _always_ discerning in the moments that Bilbo did not wish for them to be – other times they could be as oblivious as the stone that they were hewn from.

Dwalin spoke carefully, “Aye, but you need not worry ‘bout him, _Ukradel_. The White Council is makin’ plans to take him down.”

“We must concern ourselves with safeguarding what remains of Yavanna’s sons and daughters,” Thorin reminded him bluntly – subtlety, it seemed, was not a part of the vast repertoire of talents that Dwarrow possessed.

But mentioning Bilbo’s children did the trick, regardless. As much as the fire burning in him wished it, Bilbo could not go after Saruman, not without also placing the fauntlings that he so loved at risk; he was the only thing keeping them alive, after all, and if he should perish before they reached their tweens… then the last light of Yavanna’s firstborn would die with him. Protecting them was both his solemn responsibility and his paramount privilege.

“I claimed them, with my heart and soul via Green Magic,” Bilbo illuminated. “They are _mine_ ; as much as they would have been had I sired them. The Nurture Bonds are the most sacred of the natural defensives that Hobbits have – they cannot be broken, except in death. You aren’t just getting me, you’ll be getting nine faunts who will look at you and see two more fathers, because they can sense that you’re my Melodies.”

“We will protect you all,” Thorin swore intensely, “You and the children; we will keep you safe, _Khajmel_. Helping you raise them will be an honor that we do not deserve.”

“I’ve been tryin’ to convince this royal lump to adopt for near a century now,” Dwalin said. “I was hopin’ that you’d be on my side once Erebor was reclaimed and that we could wear him down, since his worries ‘bout it not bein’ safe enough would no longer be valid.”

“They won’t… they’re not dwarflings,” Bilbo conveyed. “Even raised amongst Dwarrows, there will be things that they will never be able to do simply because they are not children of Mahal – develop stone sense, for example, or grow any larger than, well, me, and I’m one of the tallest Hobbits in our history – and there will be things that they do instinctually, that they _must_ do, that may be difficult for non-Hobbits to understand.”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” Thorin declared. “There may have never been Princes and Princesses of Erebor such as them before, but, regardless, they will be given every honor and every aspect of them shall be cherished. They will want for nothing.”

“Princes and Princesses,” Bilbo’s eyes widened and he protested, “But, they’re not of the line of Durin.”

“The Elves, even while they perpetuated the falsehood of your death, hailed you as _Ernil uin Glaur_ ,” Dwalin said with a shrug, “And even if they had not, yer a _Melhekith Hurmâl_ of Erebor and you have claimed the faunts as yers in a way that is the equivalent of the Dwarven tradition of adoptin’ a child and becomin’ their _Shomakhâl Abanaz U Barukaz_ , guardian of stone and of axe. That makes ‘em royalty basically by default.”

“Oh,” Bilbo worried at his lower lip. “Are you angry with me, because I asked the Elves and Gandalf to lie to you?”

“Did you do it to punish us?” Thorin replied, no censure in his voice.

“I… I don’t know. Maybe,” Bilbo confessed. “I knew that the sickness was gone, but I was too scared to hope that… that it was the only reason you didn’t want me anymore. And… I _was_ angry. I tried to convince myself that if I could just get back to Bag End all of the fear and hurt and resentment, which was threatening to consume me back then, would bleed away. I think… I think that even if I had tried to go to Erebor nothing good would have come of it. The Ring, carrying it, was… a burden, one that did not ease even after I destroyed it. Even now, with my soul as wounded as it is from the loss of my people, I’m healthier than I was back then. A lot of the time between me departing Erebor up until some of my more persistent relations forced me to let them back into my life is hazy – I can remember it if I try hard enough, but it almost hurts to do so.”

“Would that we had not been callous fools and been at yer side, _Gayadê_ ,” Dwalin murmured mournfully. “Perhaps the Ring could not have harmed you so.”

“If we are angry, then it is with ourselves, not with you,” Thorin answered Bilbo’s question, one large thumb stroking his cheek with almost a kind of reverence. “Even a thousand years of apologies will not be enough to rectify the wrongs we committed against you.”

“I don’t need a thousand years or as many apologies as you could fit into such a span of time,” Bilbo insisted. “I just need you to promise me that you’ll never leave me again and for you keep that promise.”

“I swear it,” Thorin rejoined without hesitation.

Dwalin squeezed Bilbo’s fingers gently, “As do I.”

Bilbo dared to believe them.

“We… we have some things that belong to you, things we took in the name of false justice that we should very much like to return to you now,” Thorin proclaimed, pulling a small pouch of purple silk out from beneath his shirt and pulling the cord that it hung from over his head. Dwalin copied him quickly, gesturing for Bilbo to cup his hands together.

Bilbo complied and Thorin and Dwalin tipped the pouches upside down, spilling two dozen sparkling beads into Bilbo’s palms – Mithril and colored diamonds all fixed with the Royal Mark of Erebor. Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat and his heart skipped a beat in his chest.

His marriage beads.

Hobbits exchanged rings, usually of ornate silver, during a ceremony to symbolize their wedded bliss – this was the final step of the courtship traditions in the Shire, traditions that were much simpler than Dwarven ones – but Dwarves wore beads fashioned for them by whichever family held the higher rank amongst the people. Usually, this meant that Dwarves had to wait until _after_ their child had met their One or Ones to have the beads created, but Thrain, as the Heir Apparent of Erebor with only the King Under the Mountain outranking him, had not needed to do any such thing. The beads were woven into hair in private following a wedding ceremony and before the consummation of the marriage – the act was perceived by Mahal’s sons and daughters to be nearly as intimate as sex.

Bilbo’s hands trembled almost violently, joy and terror at war within him. ‘ _Calm down_ ,’ he ordered himself, ‘ _Calm down right now or they’ll notice and be upset._ ’ To his dismay, his body seemed to have no inclination at all to obey this edict.

“Bilbo?” Thorin steadied the Hobbit’s hands, perceiving what Bilbo had not wanted either him or Dwalin to. “Bilbo, what’s wrong?”

“You said-” Bilbo cut himself off, trying to quell the panic, trying to forget the words spoken on the day that he had been cast out.

‘ _I revoke your right to wear our beads and braids. I revoke your right to touch Mithril and should you ever in the presence of a Dwarf after this day, know that you will lose your hands._ ’

Well, there they were, the words, not quite as easily forgotten as Bilbo would have preferred them to be.

Thorin inhaled sharply in understanding, “Oh, _Ghivashel_.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo blurted out, ashamed at his reaction to getting something that he had so badly wished for in his heart for years. He had missed his beads, missed what they symbolized, with a fervor that he had not imagined would surface when the beads had been first gifted to him. “I’m sorry.”

“ _You_ have nothing to be sorry for,” Thorin objected. “This is my fault.”

“Our fault,” Dwalin interjected.

“Can… can you braid them in?” Bilbo requested, swallowing the burst of fear as best as he could. “Please?”

“Yes,” Dwalin assured hastily, “Of course we can.”

Bilbo was settled in between his two Dwarven husbands as they gently tamed the red gold curls that framed his face into six slim, ornate braids, plucking beads from his palms to weave in as they needed them. It took a good half-hour, the braiding, and Bilbo suspected that his Melodies were drawing the process out on purpose, because it had not taken half that amount of time when they had braided his hair in Lake-town, but the time, and conversation, helped to soothe him.

“You’ve been cutting your hair,” Thorin noted as his fingers moved through Bilbo’s locks nimbly, and it was a question.

“I didn’t have a reason not to,” Bilbo acknowledged. “I won’t, anymore.”

“You don’t have to alter yerself for us,” Dwalin repeated the earlier sentiment.

“Well, then, I won’t do it for you,” Bilbo lied, shivering ever so slightly when Dwalin’s fingers brushed the tip of his ear. “I’ll do it to stop Balin and Dori from having coronaries. I saw how pale Dori got when he caught sight of my clothes; I didn’t think that anyone was capable of fussing more than my Uncle Elrond, but Dori manages to do so admirably. And the last time I tried to cut my hair in his presence, Balin subjected me to a four hour long lecture about the sanctity of my wayward curls.”

Thorin chuckled, “Balin has always had a gift for lectures and details. There is a reason that he writes my speeches and is the Chief Advisor to the Throne.”

“Dori will probably have a full wardrobe waitin’ for you in Erebor,” Dwalin added, his voice just a shade smug. “He may have even already sent a Raven to the Tailor’s Guild with detailed instructions ‘bout every single article of clothin’ he’s decided that you need.”

“Is Dori in charge of the Tailor’s Guild, then?” Bilbo asked.

“Dori is the Guildmaster of Erebor, is the one that all of the Guild Chiefs must report to and it is he who settles any disputes that may arise between the guilds, and he is also, like most of the Company, a High Lord of Erebor,” Thorin revealed. “The High Lords and Ladies make up the Golden Council, while the regular Lords and Ladies compose the Silver Council.”

“Most?” Bilbo questioned.

“Fíli, as my heir, is a member of the Mithril Council, as is his wife, Sigrid, me, Dwalin, and, if you so desire it, _you_ ,” Thorin stated. “Fíli is also the Chief of the Jeweler’s Guild, a position that he will hold until the Crown falls to him, and Chief Ambassador to Dale, while Sigrid, much to Bard’s dismay, leads the Shieldmaidens – an alliance of Dwarrowdams and Women who came to the conclusion that allowing males to fight for them was archaic and foolish, as so many of us were so easily blinded by the lure of gold – and assists my sister in managing the Royal Household.”

“Bard disagrees with her?”

“Bard agrees wholeheartedly,” Dwalin replied, twisting a group of curls intricately. “He just ain’t very happy ‘bout Sigrid puttin’ herself at risk by standin’ as the division’s leader. There are some in Erebor and Dale who are opposed to either females doin’ battle, or the alliance between Dwarves and Men, or both. Not many of ‘em, but enough. Change can be a fearful thing.”

“Is Tauriel a Shieldmaiden too?” Bilbo wanted to know.

“She and Kíli lead the Carven Stone Archers together,” Thorin responded, as he placed another bead in Bilbo’s hair. “They are the _elite_ of the Archer’s Division. Most of the time, this involves running through the forest on what Kíli calls ‘ _scouting missions_ ’ or assisting Nori or hunting for rare herbs that Tauriel is very good at spotting, which Óin insists are invaluable. Tauriel is also a Healer and Kíli is the Chief of the Silversmith’s Guild.”

“That’s so much responsibility,” Bilbo murmured in mild disapproval. “They’re boys, Thorin.”

“They’re the future leaders of Erebor,” Thorin corrected, though not unkindly. “One day, Fíli will be King Under the Mountain and Kíli shall be his brother’s most trusted advisor. They have borne the weight of their duties well, even if they do completely ignore tradition and protocol at times.”

“Kíli eloped with Tauriel,” Dwalin explained, when he noticed Bilbo’s confusion.

“Well, so did _we_ ,” Bilbo pointed out.

“ _We_ were about to face a Dragon,” Thorin muttered, sounding fairly annoyed with their nephew. “Kíli just got fed up with waiting for the majority of the Silver Council to come around to the idea of him marrying an Elf and decided to force them to accept it.”

“… and this _surprised_ you?” Bilbo inquired wryly.

Dwalin snorted in amusement, “Probably shouldn’t have.”

“What about the rest of the Company?” Bilbo wondered. “What have they been doing?”

“Ori is the Master Scribe of Erebor and runs the _Mekebel_ , the Great Library. He’s also bein’ courted by a Crystal Carver named Bín. He’s a good lad and utterly devoted to Ori, though Dori and Nori hate ‘im on principle.” Dwalin said. “Bombur is the Master of the Kitchens and the Keeper of the Keys fer the food stores and granaries. His wife, Rínalí, is Chief of the Architect’s Guild and is pregnant with their seventh bairn. Bofur is the Chief of the Miner’s Guild – he and Nori finally got their acts together and are officially courtin’ – and Bifur is the Chief of the Woodworker’s Guild. Bo and Bif also run a toy shop situated the Western Quarter of Erebor’s Royal Bazaar, the _Toy Treasury_ , and Bifur’s daughter, Rannvá, makes the loveliest plush animals for the store.”

“Glóin is the Master of the Royal Treasury and Óin is Master over all of the Healers,” Thorin continued. “Glóin’s wife, Gélaní, is my sister’s lady-in-waiting and their son, Gimli, is a member of the Guard and one of the most skilled; I’m promoting him to Captain once we return to the Mountain. He traveled here with us, so you shall get to meet him. Nori is our Spymaster, leader of the Shadow Shields, and he owns a tavern, which he had the audacity to name _Dragonsbreath_ , that his youngest sister, Rannvá’s wife, Florís, manages with frightening efficiency.”

“Shadow Shields?”

“Erebor’s spy network,” Thorin clarified.

Bilbo blinked, “So, when you said that Kíli and Tauriel help Nori as archers, you meant…” Bilbo trailed off purposely, quite sure that he did not actually want his suspicions to be confirmed. “And the two of you have been doing… king things?”

Thorin sounded extremely amused, the clot, “Yes, lots of king things. Dwalin is the Master of the Captains of the Royal Guard.”

“And, technically, I’m in charge of the Spymaster too, but Nori, the git, and his Shadow Shields have this irritatin’ habit of askin’ fer forgiveness and not permission,” Dwalin scowled mildly.

“Yes, that rather sounds like Nori,” Bilbo remarked with a slight smirk. “Did Dori ever open the tea shop that he spoke of during the Quest?”

“He did, though the older of his two sisters runs the place,” Dwalin stated. “It’s a pretty little shop in the Southern quarter of Erebor’s Royal Bazaar. The _Silver-Winged Raven_ , he’s called it.”

“Morís, Óin’s wife?” Bilbo said.

“Aye,” Dwalin picked up the last of the beads. “Dori’s teas are quite popular and the shop is the only place to buy Ori’s knitwear, which is the finest in the kingdom. Dori and Balin were wed two autumns ago, as well.”

Thorin finished braiding Bilbo’s hair only a few seconds before Dwalin did. It was amazing, how comforting the slight weight of the beads was. Thorin kissed Bilbo’s cheek, his soft beard tickling him, “There.”

Dwalin finished too and then rose and retrieved a flat, oaken chest from the pile of things that the Company had dumped in Bilbo’s bedroom, carrying it over to Bilbo and setting it before him, “These are yers too, _Laslel_.”

Bilbo unlatched the chest and lifted the lid, expecting – hoping – to see the pair of Mithril and Everbright Steel daggers and the Mithril coat that had been given to him as wedding gifts by his Melodies. And these were, in fact, inside the trunk, but they were not the only things that had been packed into it.

For a solid few minutes, Bilbo could only gape at the contents of the chest.

There was a full tea set of solid silver, etched with violets and studded with blue emeralds, a golden music box with jacinth scattered across it in whorls, a case of silver and ruby writing quills, and an ornate flute of platinum inlaid with streaking flecks of lapis lazuli on the top. Beneath these were a trio of gold-bound books, a bouquet of platinum and golden violets, lavender stalks, and roses, three coats of the softest, finest silk that Bilbo had ever felt, and two hooded cloaks of thick fur in gold and silver. And at the very bottom was an elaborate shield of Mithril edged with red, blue, and purple diamonds and a Mithril-tipped axe of Everbright Steel with a Golden Oak handle embedded with dark green emeralds.

Understanding slowly crept in, “Are these… are these _for me_?”

“They are,” Thorin verified, sounding a bit nervous. “There are more, but they were either too large to carry with us or were items that could have been damaged during travel. There are three Gifting Days a year, according to the Dwarven calendar. Balin spoke of them to you, did he not?”

Bilbo just nodded, overwhelmed. There were seven major festivals that Dwarrow celebrated, plus Durin’s Day. On Durin’s Day and during the Festival of the Forges and on the morn of the Festival of Hunt, Dwarves presented their family with gifts. Expensive, beautiful gifts for Durin’s Day, homemade gifts of a Dwarf’s craft on Forge Day, and gifts of meats or furs or something from a kill on Hunt Day.

“You’ve missed several of them,” Thorin supplied.

“You thought that I was dead,” and it was definitely a question, even if the phrasing had been a bit off.

“Aye,” Dwalin agreed softly. “And Dwarrow do not grieve lightly.”

They had crafted all of those beautiful and _excessively_ valuable things for him, despite believing that he was lost to them forever, because… oh, _oh_.

Bilbo’s breath hitched and he felt as if he had something stuck in his throat as he spoke, “You missed me.”

“Of _course_ we did, Bilbo,” Thorin responded earnestly, “Every minute of every day.”

“It was as if a piece of our hearts had been cut away,” Dwalin intoned solemnly.

Bilbo covered his face with his hands, guilt flooding into him. He had been so _sure_ , had he not? Sure that staying away, that him playing dead, was best for everyone, that Thorin and Dwalin would prefer it that way. Maybe, things _would_ have been okay, had he listened to Galadriel’s advice and gone to Erebor. Possibly, it would have been more painful initially, but, perhaps, he would have recovered from the Ring faster at his husbands’ sides.

Tears escaped his eyes again and he whispered somberly, “I’m sorry.”

Gently, Dwalin tugged his hands away, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m rather sure that’s not entirely true,” Bilbo countered. “When I took the Arkenstone and gave it to Bard, I knew that you would hurt by it and I did it anyway. I promised to never willingly grieve you and I broke that promise.”

“We broke our promises to you first,” Thorin uttered decisively. “If you desire our forgiveness, then you have it, Bilbo, but know that we have long considered you to be blameless in regards to what transpired before the Battle.”

“The gifts are beautiful,” Bilbo spoke softly, almost shyly. “And far more than I deserve, _Fy Alawon_.”

Dwalin and Thorin beamed at him, delighted, and Dwalin replied intently, “You deserve every beautiful thing in all of Arda.”

Bilbo eyed his husbands with suspicion as a memory from a more naïve period of their time together struck him, “You didn’t really make me a hundred golden roses to wear, right?”

“No,” Thorin responded, almost ruefully. “You can’t wear them; we made them, gold and platinum, to adorn the walls of your Craft Room, so that even during winter you could have a garden.”

Bilbo opened his mouth and then shut it again, reorganizing his thoughts before sighing fondly, “You know, if someone had told me the night that we met that the two of you are, in reality, such romantic _saps_ , I would have thought them utterly and irreversibly mad. Do you have any idea how much I love the two of you?”

“We can make you a hundred roses to wear, if you like,” Dwalin offered.

“Er,” Bilbo patted Dwalin’s arm affectionately, “That may be a tad excessive, my darling.”

“You are small,” Thorin agreed thoughtfully. “You might collapse under the weight… unless we make them very tiny.”

“I’m not _small_ ,” Bilbo protested, wrinkling his nose, remembering too late that Thorin found this particular habit of his rather adorable.

Thorin’s smile turned besotted, “Smaller than Dwarves, I meant.”

A thought struck Bilbo then, “I… I have something of yours too. I didn’t mean to take it; in fact, I rather forgot that I even had it until after I’d already left Erebor. Where are my clothes, the ones that I was wearing yesterday, I mean?”

Bilbo dearly hoped that his uncle had not thrown them away or sent them to be washed.

“They’re inside the cupboard there,” Dwalin rejoined, easing Bilbo’s worry. “Yer uncle didn’t want to do anythin’ with ‘em until he knew what your wishes were.”

Bilbo stood and moved over to the wardrobe, opening it and noting that, along with his worn-out garb, there were several other sturdy outfits waiting for him, most of them travel garb lined with lambswool. There was even an Elven Cloak, with a broach of green leaf veined with silver, which Bilbo knew had a powerful camouflaging magic sewn into every strand. Clearly, Bilbo’s uncle had anticipated that his nephew would not be remaining in his house for very long, since he had liberally stocked the armoire with such articles.

Bilbo picked up his exhausted coat, which looked rather pitiful next to the fine Elven-made clothing, and rummaged through the inner pocket, grabbing the thick parchment folded inside. He carried it over to Thorin and held it out.

“The map,” Thorin realized, his eyes wide as he accepted it. “I assumed that it was lost during the fight with the Dragon, when I finally thought of it again.”

“I carried it with me to Mordor,” Bilbo said, sotto voce, “It was… a comfort, during the journey South. A reminder of why I had to destroy the Ring… the only one that I had.”

And then he was being held once more, held lovingly in the embrace of the two Dwarrow that he loved more he could even fully comprehend, their warmth seeping past his skin, into his heart and soul. Bilbo was not sure how long they sat there – clinging to each other in their own private world – but eventually there sounded a tentative knock on the doors of the bedroom and reality intruded.

One of the doors opened and Balin peered around it carefully, his caution morphing into a soft smile when he caught sight of them, “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but the wee ones have awoken and are demanding to see you, Bilbo.”

“It’s alright,” Bilbo rejoined, lifting his head from Thorin’s shoulder. He stood, his husbands rising with him, their hands remaining on his upper and lower back possessively. “I’m surprised that they’ve only just woken.”

“They were up rather late last night,” Balin admitted. “It took some time to get them settled. Ori finally managed it, actually, by telling them stories. They were not very pleased when you fainted, laddie.”

Judging from the look on Balin’s face, the faunts were not the only ones disconcerted by Bilbo’s collapse.

“I’m fine now,” Bilbo told him.

“And I’m very grateful for that,” Balin pulled Bilbo into a tight hug. “But, perhaps, the next time that Nori suggests that you should lie down, you consider listening, hmm?”

“Yes, Balin,” Bilbo replied dutifully.

“Everyone’s out in the main garden,” Balin revealed, as he slowly released Bilbo. “There’s plenty of food waiting for you, as I’m sure that you must be quite hungry by now. The little ones said that you haven’t eaten since midday yesterday.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Bilbo confessed, though he had rather forgotten about his hunger until Balin had mentioned it.

“Come along then,” Balin instructed. “It won’t do for you to faint again from hunger.”

Fíli and Kíli were waiting for them out in the spacious hallway and when they caught sight of the beads in Bilbo’s hair and the grip that Thorin and Dwalin had on his hands, wide, delighted grins fairly spilt their faces in half.

“Oh, thank Mahal,” Fíli praised, filching Bilbo from his husbands in a quick motion so that he could squeeze his Hobbit uncle snugly. “You two lumps managed to not muck it up.”

“Fíli, my dear,” Bilbo choked out against his nephew’s chest as his husbands sputtered indignantly, “I’m exceedingly glad to see you again, but I do rather need to breathe.”

“Sorry, _Idadith_ ,” Fíli lessened his grip and then gently knocked his forehead against Bilbo’s, a Dwarven expression of affection reserved for beloved family members. “Our new cousins are utterly adorable, by the way, and very clever. The older boys managed to convince the Elf-attendants that Hobbit will wilt like flowers if they don’t get cakes for breakfast.”

Bilbo sighed heavily, “Grim and Bras are scamps, but they mean no harm. They convinced the Faeries in the Old Forest to let them try Rose Mead; let me tell you what a fun night _that_ was.”

Fíli laughed and passed him over to Kíli, who glomped him eagerly.

“I _am_ sorry about yesterday,” Kíli said sheepishly, into Bilbo’s shoulder, after planting a smacking, bristly kiss on Bilbo’s cheek. “It was stupid of me to get distracted; it’s just that I, we all, missed you something awful.”

“I missed you too,” Bilbo pressed a kiss to Kíli’s temple and tugged at his beard, which was finally growing in, fondly, “But you’re still in trouble.”

“Yes, _Idadith_ ,” Kíli agreed happily. “By the way, your goat doesn’t like me at all. She tried to head but me and, when I dodged her, tried to eat my clothes.”

“I’m rather certain that Bryony doesn’t like anyone very much, little raven,” Bilbo returned, shrugging his shoulders.

“The babes still need milk, don’t they?” Balin asked. “I imagine the goat is a good source of it.”

“Milk?” Bilbo echoed, tilting his head in confusion. “They’re much too little, still, to drink milk, Balin. It would hurt their stomachs and make them ill.”

“If Hobbit babes can’t drink milk, then what, exactly, do they drink?” Fíli questioned slowly.

“Flower Nectar, little lion,” Bilbo answered plainly. “Ground up flowers – most commonly roses, or lavender, or lilies, or violets, or sunflowers, though other flowers can be used too – and smashed honeycomb makes a powder that is mixed with warm water to create the drink. Fauntlings consume it on a daily basis until they are at least four, sometimes as late as seven, and can only start eating solid foods after their second birthdays, and then only sparingly. Adults can drink it too, but it’s very, very sweet and not many can tolerate it.”

“I told you that the drink the Elves made for the little ones smelled like flowers,” Kíli nudged his brother. “Tauriel said the scent was identical to the Silver Bells.”

“I spent nearly every winter of my childhood here in Rivendell,” Bilbo remarked, rocking back on his heels a bit. “And my parents basically lived here for the first five years after I was born – to teach all four of my feuding grandparents a lesson. Apparently, I favored the Silver Bell Flower Nectar that my uncle made – my mother told me that Uncle Elrond added sundrops into it, which is why I’m so tall, for a Hobbit.”

“If Hobbit babes do not drink milk as the children of other races do, then why’d you bring the goat with you?” Dwalin wondered.

“Well, I couldn’t leave her all by herself in the Shire. She was a pampered thing owned by a cousin of mine and never would have survived on her own,” Bilbo told him, looking back toward his husbands.

Both of their faces morphed into something very tender and full of devotion as Thorin spoke, “Your heart is a wonder, _Ghivashel_.”

************************************************************************

The rest of the Company, the fauntlings, Elrond, Arwen, Tauriel, and Sigrid were, as Balin had said, in the _Celebsant_. Various Elven attendants were scattered about, ostensibly to see to whatever needs the Lady Arwen and their Lord’s guests might have, though they seemed more interested in watching the Dwarves suspiciously than anything else. Edging the garden, were Dwarven guards, none of whom Bilbo recognized, and they, in turn, were scrutinizing the attendants charily.

Old habits, it seemed, did, in fact, die hard.

Melilot caught sight of Bilbo first and it was her cheerful cry of “ _Papa_!” that spurred the others faunts to run or toddle or crawl as quickly as they could, scrambling out of laps or down from trees, over to him. Bilbo went down on one knee to catch Grim and Bras, who reached him first – and nearly knocked him down with the force of their exuberance to see him.

“Papa!” Grim announced, sounding very pleased with himself, “We haven’t broke nothing while you was sleeping!”

“And we used our table manners and we made your Dwarves use them too, else they would get no dessert,” Bras added, proudly.

“They taught us a song to sing during dinner,” Cela revealed, squeezing in-between her brothers. “And it’s about you, Papa!”

“Yeah,” Grim agreed. “It’s called, ‘ _That’s What Bilbo Baggins Hates_ ’!”

Bilbo let loose a sigh of exasperation, tinged with a hint of fondness, “Of course they did.”

He shot the Dwarves lounging on the grass, who were beaming at him and the faunts in golden amusement, unreserved relief, and no small amount of affection, a look that only served to make them smile wider.

“Uncle Elrond said that you had to sleep because you were very tired from traveling, Papa,” Bella Rose said, her tiny hands on her hips and her tone scolding. “You need to sleep more, so you don’t fall down again.”

“No,” Frodo proclaimed resolutely, nuzzling at Bilbo’s chest. “No, no, no, Papa.”

“Papa,” Sam breathed out, his green, green like a misty forest, eyes wide as he clung to Bilbo. “No fall.”

“I’m sorry, dear hearts, it shan’t happen again,” Bilbo promised. At least, it would not occur where his little ones could witness it. “But, everything’s alright now.”

“Papa,” Meli inquired curiously from where she hung over Bilbo’s shoulder. “Why do you have shinies in your hair?”

“They’re marriage beads, sweetling,” Bilbo explained. “You met _Fy Alawon_ , didn’t you?”

“Not really,” Meli replied, pouting a bit. “They were too busy staring at you yesterday.”

“And we are both very sorry for that,” Thorin spoke up, as he and Dwalin moved to kneel in the grass beside Bilbo. “We did not mean to ignore any of you, _Habân_.”

“We missed yer Papa very much,” Dwalin contributed gently. “And were worried about him.”

“Do you love him?” Bella Rose asked.

“Yes,” Thorin responded at once.

“So very much,” Dwalin said at the exact same time.

With a smile, Bella Rose reached out and touched their faces. Deep in Bilbo’s soul, he felt his daughter’s inherited bonds with his husbands settle. They were not true Nurture Bonds, they could not be, as neither Thorin nor Dwalin were Hobbits, but they were strong and permanent.

“Hello, _Tadau_ ,” Bella Rose looked at Thorin and then swiveled her gaze to Dwalin, “Hello, _Dadi_. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Does this mean that we’re going to Erebor?” Cela questioned, excitedly.

“Yes,” Bilbo told her. “We’re going to Erebor.”

Bilbo’s brothers and nephews lost the ability to contain themselves upon hearing that decisive declaration, breaking into raucous cheering that startled the Elven attendants, which delighted the Dwarven guards, in turn. Bofur and Nori reached him first, squeezing Bilbo tight and lifting him slightly off the ground in their jollity. That hug ended only for Bilbo to be pulled into another, fairly squished between Bifur and Bombur.

“ _Zu _Arukh_ Kanon Ashafukh _Nudûdizu__ _Udu_ _Khidu Ai_ _,”_ Bifur mumbled into his ear as his cousin chattered against Bilbo’s cheek about all of the new recipes that he wished for Bilbo to try.

Óin pried the Urs off of Bilbo so that he could give the Hobbit an embrace of his own, “As soon as you’ve eaten, laddie, yer gettin’ a medical examination. Yer smaller than you should be.”

Bilbo did not get the chance to put up even a token protest before Óin was passing him off to Glóin who was sniffling as he held Bilbo, “Thank Mahal, this family has been missing its _Kurdu_ for too long, _Nadadith_ _.”_

Bilbo, already heartened by his brothers’ obvious glee that he would be returning with them – a part of him had feared that they would not want him, that they would believe him not good enough for them after everything he had done – felt tears well up in his eyes at Glóin’s gruff but affectionate comment.

Fortunately, Dori had a handkerchief ready for him when he and Ori took their turn holding him with care.

“There now,” Dori told him, as he gently dabbed at Bilbo’s moist eyes with the silk square of fabric, “Everything will be alright.”

Despite everything that had happened, Bilbo believed him without hesitation.

“You’re going to _love_ the library,” Ori promised eagerly. “There are more books than you can count, _Nadad_.”

“Are you really a king, _Tadau_?” Bilbo heard Bras ask in the midst of the hullabaloo, as the faunt tugged on Thorin’s sleeve.

“I really am,” Thorin replied. “Just as your Papa and Dwalin are really my Prince Consorts – and as you and your siblings are really Princes and Princesses of Erebor.”

“We are?” Bras considered that and then, “If I’m a Prince, can I make it a rule that we have to eat cake for breakfast?”

“ _No_ ,” Bilbo said pointedly before Thorin could answer, because his husband had a look of pure indulgence on his face. “No cakes until Luncheon, Bras.”

“Aw,” Bras whined and then perked up. “Can I at least ban asparagus, because asparagus is gross?”

“What’s asparagus?” Dwalin questioned.

“It’s a kind of vegetable,” Bilbo told him, inwardly sighing at the reminder of what a Dwarven diet typically consisted of. Meat, ale, meat, sweets, meat, potatoes, bread, and, oh, surprise, surprise, more meat. “An extremely nutritious one.”

“By nutrisheous, Papa means gross,” Bras declared solemnly, prompting Bilbo to look skyward.

“Are you going to teach us to talk like Dwarves?” Grim wanted to know. “Papa said that only Dwarves could teach us.”

Bilbo stiffened, a bit, but Dwalin put a soothing hand on his back, stroking his fingers down Bilbo’s spine even as Thorin agreed, “Of course. You shall have the finest teachers in Arda.”

“And we can be archers in Erebor?” Meli asked. “Yavanna wants us to be archers.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at Bilbo and Bilbo signed, ‘ _Later_ ,’ to him in swift Iglishmêk. Bilbo did not wish to speak of such things in front of those whom he did not personally know and trust.

“Certainly, if the _Amadel_ wishes it,” Thorin told Meli.

“Can I wear shinies in my hair, like Papa?” Cela inquired of Dori. “They’re pretty.”

Dori looked thrilled by the request, “Absolutely, you shall have beads to match every dress you own, little lamb.”

“All my dresses got ruined in the woods,” Cela relayed sadly.

“Then we’ll just have to make you and your sister’s new ones, a whole year’s worth of pretty dresses fit for Princesses of Erebor,” Dori assured her, patting her head, “Made of fines silks and crushed velvets and bright satins and soft wools. What’s your favorite color?”

“Rainbow,” Celandine announced primly.

“Er, sweetling,” Bilbo began, “That’s not actually a-”

“Excellent choice,” Dori praised and Bilbo decided that discretion was obviously the better part of valor and so he was decidedly _not_ going to try to intervene in Dori’s plans to expand his daughters’ wardrobes.

************************************************************************

It was not until very late that evening, after the little ones were all sleeping peacefully and dreaming sweet dreams, that more serious conversation was able to be held. Dwalin certainly did not mind, for it seemed like Bilbo had desperately needed the tranquility of that late morning and afternoon after the emotional turbulence that dawn had brought with it.

Watching Bilbo interact with the fauntlings had been strange in all of the best ways. Bilbo was a natural when it came to handling children; for all that he had off-handedly remarked during the Quest that he had not the faintest idea of how to be a parent, he was a marvelous one – patient and selfless. And the children, Mahal, the children were perfect. Both extremely similar to and nothing like Dwarven children, the fauntlings were beams of sunlight encased within tiny bodies. Watching them was like watching the personifications of spring dance around.

They were just like their Papa, really.

Dwalin still could not believe that he and Thorin had their beloved Burglar back. That Bilbo still loved them, despite everything that they had said and done, and was willing to give them a chance to prove themselves. He was broken, a bit, but no less beautiful in the minds of his husbands – who would see him healed, whatever it took. Bilbo faith in them had been shattered, but he wanted to trust Dwalin and Thorin again, was willing to let them build his confidence in them back up.

He was allowing them to hold him, too – and, by Mahal, how wonderful it was to hold Bilbo again – he was letting Dwalin hold him protectively on his lap as Thorin massaged circles into Bilbo’s calves and ankles. The Company was settled inside of the same study that they had first been led to upon their arrival, gathered close together as the Lord Elrond explained to Bilbo what they already knew and several things that they did not.

“How in the seven hells did Saruman even manage to conjure Black Fire?” Bilbo demanded to know, abandoning his perch and standing abruptly, to Dwalin’s mild chagrin. “Such magic should have been beyond his abilities as a Wizard!”

Elrond inclined his head in acknowledgement, “Yes, it should have been. Saruman has… been ritually sacrificing individuals of power and… consuming their hearts to increase his own. It is why I forbid Elladan, Elrohir, and Estel from leaving Lothlórien to help search for you.”

Everything was very, very quiet for a long few moments.

“I don’t understand,” Ori spoke up carefully.

“Elladan and Elrohir, in addition to having the Grace of Elves, together slew a Sea-Serpent, Lhornphylax, the greatest of Morgoth’s Fish-Dragons and, in doing so, became greater in spirit, through conquest, than Morgoth,” Bilbo explained and then cast a fearful glance toward Dwalin. “Dwalin, by killing Smaug, the last of the Great Drakes, has done the same. Estel is one of the Dúnedain and is precious to the Eldar.”

“Like you are?” Glóin questioned.

“Yes,” Elrond answered before Bilbo could. “Estel is the direct descendant of one who defeated Sauron in a particular combat a very, very long time ago. As such a descendant, Estel carries his ancestor’s victory within him and, so, Saruman desires him greatly – for Sauron was, at the height of his power, even greater than the one who took him as his apprentice – desires him almost as much as he desires Bilbo. If he should consume Bilbo’s heart, he would gain enough power to take control of the Drakes that remain in Middle Earth.”

Dwalin stiffened in his seat. He could handle the thought of someone wanting to sacrifice him, people had been trying to kill him, in a variety of ways for a myriad of reasons, since he had been but a dwarfling. But the idea of someone wanting to eat _Bilbo’s_ heart was infuriating.

“I threw a trinket into a pit of lava,” Bilbo huffed.

“You banished the Dark Lord from Arda for evermore,” the Lord Elrond countered.

Bilbo sighed, “He wasn’t seeking revenge when he sent his Urak-Hai into the Shire.”

“No,” Elrond placed a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “He had always planned to destroy your people in whatever way he could, _Gwathelion_. Hobbits cannot be corrupted like Elves, Dwarves, and Men – it is why the Ring could not gain dominion over your heart no matter how hard it tried to do so – and, as long as Hobbits exist in Middle Earth, there exists a formidable enemy against the dark.”

“My people were not fighters,” Bilbo protested. “Many of them didn’t even know what an Orc was until…”

“They were in the Beginning,” Elrond reminded gently. “And they had the potential to be so again. They still do.”

“There will be no more Hobbits born in Arda,” Bilbo announced bitterly. “Saruman has seen to that, Uncle. A month ago my children were cousins who _could have_ wed if they had so chosen, but they cannot now. Blood is not the only thing that defines what a relative is for Hobbits. The moment that the Nurture Bonds between the faunts and I were formed, my magic burned out that which they had inherited from their parents at birth. They are siblings as far as Green Magic is concerned – Yavanna would never permit them to… to have children together. The ten of us… we’re it, forever.”

“Not necessarily,” Elrond denied. “There was a time when Hobbits did not bear their children at all; they grew them in their Mother’s green earth as they, themselves, had been grown.”

“That knowledge was lost before the Shire was ever settled,” Bilbo said with a frown.

“Knowledge lost can be found again,” Elrond insisted, drawing from his robes a small, shimmering box of Ithildin, a precious metal-like substance that mirrored only starlight and moonlight when used as an ink. Dwalin had heard tales of it being used to fashion armor and weapons, had heard how the metal was not quite as strong as Mithril but far more magical, glimmering like the stars, but he had dismissed these tales as mere myths until then. “If one only dares to seek it out.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, “Is that-?”

“It is,” Elrond agreed, his voice kind but firm. “She entrusted it to me, but I do believe that it is past time for her son to reclaim it.”

“I… I had not even thought to ask for it,” Bilbo murmured, his voice thick and his body trembling. Dwalin stood immediately to steady him, Thorin placing a reaffirming hand on Bilbo’s arm, as well.

“What, exactly, is _it_?” Bofur inquired, casting the box a dubious look.

“It’s a spell, an Unearthing Spell,” Bilbo explained, claiming the box with all due care. “It will awaken my High Green Magic.”

“But… didn’t you say that doin’ so was forbidden, laddie?” Óin reminded carefully.

“The Thain, no matter his position, never truly had the right to deny any of his people access to a gift from Yavanna,” Elrond responded. “It was a travesty, even if done in the name of protection.”

“He meant well,” Bilbo sighed. “The death of his son broke a part of him. Hobbits are not meant to outlive their children. And the thing was… well, no one had the heart, or the desire, to really argue with him when he created the law or to oppose what he did in the aftermath.”

Bilbo opened the Ithildin box in a spark of purple, green, and gold magic to reveal what was protected inside. Dwalin had been expecting a book or maybe a scroll, he had not been expecting…

“It looks like a kind of glowing gem,” Thorin commented, tilting his head in confusion. “A gem carved to appear as a leaf.”

It did. The spell – because, apparently, the word had different connotations when Hobbits were concerned – had facets just like any cut gem would and it had a radiance of bright green, which was startling against the gold satin that it was nestled in.

“It’s a seed,” Bilbo corrected. “A seed meant to unearth the full potential of a Hobbit’s Green Magic. This is the only one left, because only a practitioner of High Green Magic could create more of them. Mother said that Uncle Hildifons favored cherry trees and so do I, actually. Cherry is the tree that symbolizes heart and compassion.”

“Yer uncle made this?” Dwalin asked.

Bilbo nodded, “For my mother, though she never used it because she did not wish to challenge her father. The spell, it’s quite possibly the only hope my people have of not fading from Arda, now. I _have_ to unearth my magic.”

He sounded as if he was pleading. Pleading for them to understand, Dwalin realized.

“It’ll afford you greater protection?” Dwalin questioned.

“Among other, more important, things, yes, it will,” Bilbo confirmed.

“Then you must,” Thorin determined grimly.

Bilbo bit his lip and then remarked hesitantly, “You could try sounding a bit less like you want to punch something, you know.”

There it was – the snark that Dwalin had so adored. Even if it was a few shades too timid, it was nice to hear it again. Bilbo had a smart mouth and a quick mind, and Dwalin loved them desperately.

Thorin trailed his fingers down Bilbo’s cheek, even as he reached to grip Dwalin’s wrist with his other hand, “I’ve just discovered that _both_ of my husbands are in danger of having their hearts torn out and _eaten_ by the most dangerous psychopath in Arda. I’m allowed to be upset by this, _Ghivashel_. You unearthing your magic is no distressing thing, it is a natural part of you that you never should have been denied. What must be done?”

“My heart and soul must merge with the Unearthing Spell on the dawn of Mid-year’s Day, between First and Second Lithe,” Bilbo revealed, as if reciting a long ago learned lesson, “Which falls on June the twenty-second.”

“Should we wait here until that date, then?” Dori asked. “So that you may gain access to your magic in a place that you know?”

“Hobbits have always unearthed their magic in forests that have some type of connection to them, most commonly the Old Forest in more, relatively, recent times,” Bilbo told them, shaking his head. “Unearthing my magic here, in Rivendell, could hurt both me and the magic that protects the Valley. My people called the forests on both the western and eastern sides of the Misty Mountains home during our wandering days; it would be far better to unearth my magic in one of those.”

“We can reach the eastern forest in thirty-one days,” Thorin announced. “But we would have to leave here no later than the twentieth of this month. Or, we can rest here longer and you can unearth your magic in the western forest.”

“It took longer than that last time,” Bilbo noted. “Even with the Eagles helping us along to the Carrock.”

“Ori discovered maps in the Great Library that led to an ancient tunnel system through the Misty Mountains,” Balin explained. “It cuts the travel time fairly in half, although the passage can only be opened at either end by a direct descendant of Durin.”

“It’s how we got here so quickly,” Kíli offered up.

“Well done, Ori,” Bilbo praised.

Ori blushed and grinned, “There are many secret treasures in the Great Library. I do believe that it shall take the rest of life to discover them all.”

“As glad as I would be to have you remain here for a time,” Elrond spoke up. “The sooner you reach Erebor, the better. The faunts need the stability of a true home and I would not have you traveling once the days begin to shorten come the autumn. Many Orcs fell with the Dark Lord, but those that survived have begun to breed again.”

“Will they be hunting us too?” Bilbo wondered.

“I am unsure whether or not they are aware of your survival. If not, I would prefer that we keep them in the dark until you are safe in the Lonely Mountain. Saruman will not divulge the information to them, as he will not wish to have to contend with them seeking their revenge for you destroying Sauron,” Elrond said. “If they are, somehow, aware… there was a price on your head before we concealed your fate, _Gwathelion_ , and no passage of time will sway Orcs to let loose their desire for vengeance.”

“They’ll _never_ touch him,” Dwalin swore lowly.

“Nor will their thirst for retribution ever be satisfied,” Thorin vowed.

“Aye!” the Company chorused.

************************************************************************

_May 13 th, 3, Fourth Age – Rivendell_

“This… this is Mithril,” Thorin declared, his voice laced with astonishment, as he gazed upon the gifts that Yavanna had sent to Bilbo and the faunts through the enchanted cherry tree. “Granted, it’s tinted _green_ , but there’s no doubt that it’s Mithril.”

Bilbo blinked in surprise, “Oh, well, the Green Lady _is_ the Stone King’s wife.”

“ _Zigrel_ ,” Bifur barked, looking suitably impressed.

“Indeed,” Balin nearly choked out.

“The runes,” Óin asked. “Are they Greentongue, laddie?”

“A variety of protective and affection runes wound about the Baggins Family Rune,” Bilbo confirmed. “They’re all laced with High Green Magic too.” Bilbo hesitated a bit, “I’m fairly certain that the walking stick has Khuzdûl on it, as well.”

“Oh?” Fíli looked over Bilbo’s shoulder nosily and down at the staff in Bilbo’s hands, before grinning widely. “Yep, that’s definitely Khuzdûl.”

“Right,” Bilbo said, wanting very badly to ask what the runes meant and at the same time terrified to do so.

Thorin and Dwalin were not going to harm him, were not going to allow anyone else to harm him, either. He _knew_ that, but still…

‘ _I revoke your right to speak Khuzdûl and should you ever in the presence of a Dwarf after this day, know that you will lose your tongue._ ’

“They are the runes that mean _Ghivashel_ and _Gayadê_ ,” Thorin explained, his eyes both grieved by and understanding of Bilbo’s reluctance.

“I suppose as signs go,” Bilbo quipped lightly. “This one is far from subtle.”

Hobbitish and Dwarven, mixed together on a gift fashioned with Yavanna’s Grace and Mahal’s sacred metal. The Valar, or at least two of them, wanted Bilbo to be with his husbands. A Hobbit with his Dwarves, the first such alliance since Briallan was taken from the earth for Durin – on no other occasion had Yavanna given one of her children to her husband’s.

Galadriel had told Bilbo, while he was recovering in Lothlórien after destroying the Ring, that this spoke of a great shared destiny. At the time, Bilbo had been convinced that destiny was done with him – he had stung spiders, riddled with a dragon, distracted the beast so that Dwalin could kill it, saved the line of Durin from Azog the Defiler during an unprecedented battle encompassing five armies, and vanquished Sauron – he was sure that he had no other roles left to play.

Now, Bilbo was not nearly so certain.

************************************************************************

**Translations (Khuzdûl)**

  * _Barufel_ – The Greatest of Families
  * _Baruk Bavonaz Dohyaraz Ra Gimlaz_ – Axe of the Crown, Anvil, and Stars; Alternatively, called the King’s Axe
  * _Nadad_ – Brother
  * _Nadadith_ – Little Brother
  * _Idad_ – Uncle
  * _Idadith_ – Little Uncle
  * _Murkhidad_ – Shield Uncle
  * _Idadinùdoy_ – Uncle-Son, (Term for Male Cousin)
  * _Idadnathith_ – Uncle-Daughter, (Term for Female Cousin)
  * _Gayadê_ – My Joy
  * _Laslel_ – Rose of all Roses
  * _Ukradel_ – Greatest Heart of all Hearts
  * _Ghivashel_ – Beloved
  * _Lukhudel_ – Light of all Lights
  * _Khajmel_ – Gift of all Gifts
  * _Madtithbirzul_ – Little Golden Heart
  * _Mâzyung Zu_ _–_ We Love You
  * _Melhekith Hurmâl_ – Prince Consort
  * _Shomakhâl Abanaz U Barukaz_ – Guardian of Stone and of Axe
  * _Habân_ – Gems, (I felt like Dwarves would totally call their small children this)
  * _Zu _Arukh_ Kanon Ashafukh _Nudûdizu__ _Udu_ _Khidu Ai_ – You need never doubt your brothers from now on
  * _Kurdu_ \- Heart
  * _Amadel_ – Great Mother; Mother of All Mothers
  * _Mekebel_ – Great Library
  * _Zigrel_ – Great Magic



**Translations (Sindarin)**

  * _Ernil uin Glaur_ – Prince of Golden Light
  * _Amdir_ – Hope, (The name of the bow that Elrond gives Bilbo)
  * _Thaurmôr_ – Abominable Dark
  * _Dalath Celevon_ – Plains of Silver, (Land between the Green Path and Rivendell)
  * _Gwedeir_ – Bond Brother, (there isn’t a Sindarin word for cousin, so I improvised)
  * _Ada_ – Daddy
  * _Celebsant_ – Silver Garden
  * _Gwathelion_ – Sister-Son, (Nephew)



**Translations (Greentongue – Based on Welsh)**

  * _Fy Alawon_ – My Melodies
  * _Tadau_ – Father
  * _Dadi_ – Dad



************************************************************************

**_The End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! The third episode will be up on May 5th, 2017, that’s next Friday, everybody.
> 
> Feel free to contact me here, at my Tumblr, or to email me: soabasworld@yahoo.com.

**Author's Note:**

> To challenge myself, I plotted this entire series in “television series” format because it was something new and interesting that I had not tried before. It was more difficult than I realized that it would be, because each episode had to be its own story, (with its own rising action, a climax of either emotional and/or physical danger, and falling action), as well as a part of a greater whole, (serving to enrich the main arch of the entire season), and I can only hope that I succeeded. Plus, I was working with a word limit, to keep each part “episode size”, which I decided meant that each episode needed to be between 10k and 20k, and it was actually pretty hard to not bust the maximum word count that I set.


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